


Daughter of a Wolf

by Whimsical_in_the_Brainpan



Series: All I Have Known [5]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, M/M, Severe communications failures, The Mob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:03:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whimsical_in_the_Brainpan/pseuds/Whimsical_in_the_Brainpan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No. Oh no, no, no, fuck no! They're back. Claquesous' on campus. Grantaire had to get Éponine and get as far away as humanly possible. No time to look back, they had to leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stop Me

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO UNBELIEVABLY SORRY GUYS!!! I said a few weeks and it's been much longer. But I'm back now and I'm so sorry for leaving you at that kind of cliffhanger. I'm not quite finished with writing it yet, so updates aren't going to be more than once a week, but I promise that I will be updating once a week to get this story to you. 
> 
> I hope this is a good make-up chapter. Thank you for waiting for me!

Grantaire forced himself to walk slowly and smoothly, all the way from the bar to his car. He didn’t run any red lights, or go an inch over the speed limit. Even getting out of his car and walking through the Earl, he tried to maintain some form of normalcy. It was only when he hit the staircase up to his apartment, with no windows, did his panic start to show. He bolted up the stairs two at a time, scrambling frantically to get up to his apartment. It was all he could do to check that their spare key had been safely removed before opening the door with his own set of keys and bolting in.

Inside, the living room was flooded with his friends, the same friends that he hadn’t seen in almost two months. Of course they would all be here, now of all possible times, they would be here when he needed them as far away from him as possible.

And fuck, when his eyes landed on Enjolras, the picture of open concern, Grantaire almost sobbed for what he was about to do.

Instead, he forced his eyes away from the blond, and searched out Éponine, silently curled up on the couch in Cosette’s lap. Everyone else, including Musichetta was surrounding the couch and had been watching her before he barged in. The one exception, of course, being Bahorel who stood by the window, eying the street.

Refusing to let himself slow down, Grantaire took four long strides over to his best friend and pulled her into a tight hug. They stayed there like that for a few seconds, Éponine trembling in his arms, but otherwise stoic. When he finally pulled away, he made his way immediately towards the living room closet, where he kept their many bags.

“Start packing,” he said, forcing his voice not to crack, or give way for a sob. “We’re leaving.”

He could feel everyone turn towards him, be it in surprise, confusion, or anger. He couldn’t focus on their reactions though, not even Éponine’s shock mattered.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he said with a sigh, dumping three duffel bags on the floor by his feet. “Take everything you need and just leave the rest.”

“No fucking way! I’m not leaving college. Not when we worked so hard to get here, to make a life here,” she said angrily.

He could feel their stares on the back of his neck, and he really didn’t want to have this confrontation in front of them. He spun back around to face her and wrapped her hands in his, pointedly ignoring her half-attempts to throw him off.

“Claquesous is on campus, Éponine!” he said pleadingly, wondering how she couldn’t understand this. “Claquesous! ‘Parnasse’s most trusted man.”

“Just because he saw me naked a few times back in the day…”

He rolled his eyes at her flippant treatment of everything that happened. Only she could make those ten years into something so simple, just to be stubborn. Sometimes he wondered if she kept updated on current events, or if it was just too difficult to follow. Ever since they’d left, he’s followed the news almost religiously, in case anything important happened.

“Montparnasse isn’t some gangly, well dressed teenager anymore, Ep,” he snapped at her, figuring it was time to fill her in. “His Dad’s been dead going on six months and the entire ring is his now. If his right hand’s here, then it doesn’t matter if he came for you, or if it’s a complete coincidence. Because if he sees you then he has the power to pull you out of college and drag you back anyway.”

Éponine’s eyes widened marginally at the information, but before she got the chance to respond, one of the Amis walked up from behind and rested a hand against his shoulder. Grantaire didn’t need to see or hear him to know exactly who it was.

“Grantaire, calm down and think rationally for a moment,” Enjolras said carefully.

“Back off, Enj,” he snapped, immediately shrugging away the blond’s hand without looking at him. They hadn’t spoken in two months, and every second in his presence was hurting, especially with the knowledge that he’d likely never see him again. Grantaire silently begged for him to drop it, but knew immediately that the activist never would.

“No,” Enjolras said harshly. “You can’t just run away from every little issue.”

“This isn’t some little issue, and you have no clue what you’re talking about,” Grantaire snarled.

Internally, he was still pleading for the man to just go.

“Then why don’t you just explain it to me already,” Enjolras responded instantly, fists clenching in exasperation. “I might be able to help.”

Grantaire thought he was going to be sick. He couldn’t handle both Montparnasse’s possible return into their lives, and Enjolras’ anger at him avoiding them. As it was, he could feel his equilibrium tipping, and the desire to curl up in his closet until the world stopped spinning trying to overtake him. Had it been literally anything else, he wouldn’t still be standing upright. But this was Montparnasse, and Éponine needed him to hold it together.

“We’re not one of your little causes, Enjolras,” he spat out, willing to try anything to shake Enjolras and the Amis off so they could pack and flee as quietly as possible.

“No, you’re my friends and I don’t want to lose you. Especially not if there’s something I could have done!” Enjolras said, and Grantaire ached at the words.

“Stop it!” Éponine shouted finally, before throwing her arms out in defeat. When they finally quieted, she turned to him and rested a hand against his shoulder. “Let’s just tell them, R.”

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Grantaire backed away from her, shaking his head so much that he hoped it would distract from the trembling in the rest of his body. But Éponine didn’t let him curl up and hide, and stepped towards him every time he tried to back away. They both knew that any concept they’d had of safety was gone now, and she had seemed to throw all caution to the wind, while he scrambled for what scraps might be left behind.

Soon enough, his back connected with a wall, and Éponine was still approaching, looking at him sadly, but still imploring.

“I’m tired of us being the dropout and the runaway. Always looking behind us, always keeping our heads down,” she said, reaching out and taking his hands like he had just done. “Open your eyes, R. We did it, we found somewhere. And it’s ours.”

“It’s just a club, ‘Ponine,” he said with a sigh, hearing the lie as soon as it came out of his mouth. It wasn’t just a club. Somehow, they’d found this group, and the people there had accepted them, cracks and all.

After finding Éponine, he’d believed that was it. That was the one incredible thing he’d be given in his life. Then there had been Christopher, but he’d destroyed that, and he was sure he didn’t deserve anything else. But somehow, Grantaire had gotten a third chance, this time with an entire group of people. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that this was his actual last chance; he could never hope to find anyplace better than with these stupid, brilliant students.

She had to know that he didn’t want this either. That he would give anything not to be afraid, not to run away from them so many times, not to have to leave them. Not to have to leave Enjolras. But Claquesous was here, and it simply wasn’t safe for them anymore.

“Do you trust me?” Enjolras asked carefully.

“Of course,” Grantaire replied before he had the chance to think about it, wincing after the words escaped.

The student leader started to approach him and Éponine, walking slowly to give him plenty of time to move away if it was too much. It was as if he was an animal in a cage everyone was afraid of spooking, and the comparison was debilitating in its accuracy.

Part of him wanted to dart sideways along the wall, and put as much distance between him and Enjolras as possible. He knew what the student was trying to do, and it would work.

“Do you trust them?” Enjolras asked, gesturing to the rest of the Amis watching the three of them with sad eyes.

“Yes,” Grantaire said after a moment of hesitation. Almost against his will, he met every one of their faces.

The urge to run fought hideously with the desire to stay. He _wanted_ to ask about Jehan’s poetry, joke around with Courfeyrac and Bossuet, have that rematch with Bahorel over shots, listen to Cosette babble on about clothes, Marius babble on about Cosette, waste lunch breaks with Joly, set up the Musain in the mornings with Musichetta, listen to Feuilly bitch about the idiots he worked with, make fun of Combeferre when he tried to parent him over his alcohol intake. They were his friends, all of them; and if he believed in nothing, they would be his one conviction.

And Enjolras; he wanted to listen to Enjolras speak for the rest of his life, wanted to argue with him over everything and nothing, just to see the flush of frustration in his cheeks. He wanted to watch him during his rallies, and show him the rest of Friends. He wanted to bask in Enjolras until it was time for him to die.

“Who is Claquesous?” Enjolras asked softly.

Grantaire turned to look at Éponine; when Enjolras implored him like that he was powerless to refuse. His last defense was her response, because for all accounts and purposes, this was entirely her story to tell. He really shouldn’t have any say in whether or not they explained their past to these people, and how much they revealed.

But meeting Éponine’s dark brown eyes, he could see her waiting for him. She wanted them to know. She must’ve come to trust them a long time ago, far earlier than he was ever able to. Again, Enjolras was asking him to give of himself so intimately, that he trembled from fear. This time, it wasn’t just a word to put on a t-shirt though. This time, he was asking for the story, requesting context. If Grantaire started to tell Enjolras about his past, would he be able to stop? Éponine just nodded at him encouragingly, and so it was his decision to trust them, or abandon them.

And in the end, he couldn’t help but trust them.

“Claquesous is the second in command to Montparnasse: the king-pin of the Patron-Minette.”

“The Patron-Minette?” Courfeyrac asked cautiously, clearly recognizing the name “As in…”

“Yes,” Grantaire cut him off with a wince. “As in the French mob. They deal in drugs, weapons, girls, you name it. They cover it up by hiding it underneath legitimate businesses. Montparnasse was the creepy little boss’s son, but now he’s head of the ring, and he’s all but untouchable. He’s got a ton of law enforcement on his payroll, and if Claquesous is here it means that ‘Parnasse sent him.”

“How are you two involved with the Patron-Minette?” Jehan piped up, eyes wide.

Fuck, he could see it starting in their eyes. The mistrust, wondering what crowds they ran with before they came here. Grantaire took a step away from the wall to stand up next to Éponine, in case they didn’t understand and she needed the support.

“Grantaire isn’t,” Éponine said immediately, protecting him the same way he was trying to protect her. “My parents ran a motel at the edge of town, close to the train station, but that was mostly a cover. Our town was a key flow-through point, on a major drug smuggling route, and my father was paid to make sure all of the goods arrived safely, and continued on to where they needed to go. If business deals had to take place between the boss, and another big name player, my Dad’s motel was usually a common meeting point.”

“Okay,” Feuilly said, analyzing everything that he was hearing before speaking again. “So how are _you_ involved with that?”

Éponine looked to the ground uncomfortably, and Grantaire was about to take over to save her from having to spell it out, when Combeferre beat him to the revelation.

“Your shirt,” the philosophy student said slowly.

Grantaire moved closer to Éponine and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. They were a good group of kids, but this was also one of those things that changes relationships. It was very likely that everyone would look at Éponine differently afterwards.

“My Dad was a clever businessman,” she said, clearly forcing her voice to remain neutral. “Robbed the poor schmucks dumb enough to stay the night, and treated mob guests to the best in customer service; the best rooms, the fresh food, and the company of a young lady if they so desired.”

And it was out there. It was Éponine’s big secret, not his, but he still winced as if it were. Éponine’s shirt, _business deal benefit_ probably hung in their heads, context giving the words a weight that they never realized before.

“How young?” Jehan asked, voice sounding shockingly low and dangerous.

Grantaire looked amongst his friends, and saw the budding anger in a few of their eyes. Bahorel’s snarl and Combeferre’s tight-lipped scowl was to be expected, but the poet’s was not. Jean Prouvaire was a soft soul; he wrote poetry about flowers, wore bright colors that most guys avoided, and let things roll off his back without affecting him. Jehan’s roommate stole his goddamn medication for fuck’s sake, and he didn’t let it bother him.

“First time I was six years old,” Éponine answered with a shrug, trying to play it off casually. “Wasn’t often, but continued until we ran away.”

“No one in the school noticed something was wrong? No one did anything?” Enjolras demanded angrily.

Well, he’d expected Enjolras’ righteous fury to kick in a great deal sooner, so in a way he was impressed. By now, he’d learned that Enjolras’ natural response to hearing things like this was to get angry with the larger societal gap that caused terrible things to happen, because he didn’t know how to deal with an individual in pain.

“The Patron-Minette was so connected that Ep’s third grade teacher couldn’t even file a report to Child Protective Services,” he explained calmly, giving him a look that he hoped convinced Enjolras to drop it for the time being. “We met when I was nine, so whenever it happened, she would run away to my house afterwards, and stay with me.”

Grantaire had never said anything to Éponine, and she had never said anything to him, but both were pretty sure that was why they’d been able to run away so easily as well. The Patron-Minette didn’t want Éponine on law enforcement’s radar, so if Grantaire’s parents had called him in missing, Montparnasse’s men had probably intercepted and buried the report. If missing persons had caught up to them then Éponine would’ve started spilling mob information, so they would’ve rather had Éponine lost than located.

“For nine years?” Combeferre asked, and looked at Éponine sadly.

Neither of them knew what to say to explain that away, or downplay it to make it better for their friends, so Éponine just shrugged again, and he tried to decide where to pick up the story again.

“When I finally decided to run away, I showed up at her window to get her out and we drove off into the sunset, never looking back. Eventually, we found our way here and settled down. I got a few jobs and Éponine started up high school again.”

Even though it was complete bullshit, Grantaire figured he might as well try to end on a happy note. Of course, as he looked up to meet Enjolras’ gaze, he could see that it wouldn’t last for long. The problem they’d avoided for so long had just reentered their lives, and he didn’t know how long he had to get them out.

“But now Claquesous is here,” Enjolras finished angrily. “So what does that mean for Éponine?”

“We’re runaways,” Grantaire said with a sigh, hoping this convinced the Amis to let them escape. “Technically, they could force us to go back. Assuming Montparnasse didn’t send Claquesous because he’s found Ep and wants her back, then she’s still a liability.”

“How?” Marius asked, frustrated and confused.

For the first time since he’d begun his and Éponine’s story, Grantaire really regarded Marius. Unlike the anger in a lot of the others’ expressions, the awkward ginger looked distressed and shell-shocked. Though it was easy to forget, since he talked about Cosette or his father so often, Éponine was still one of the kid’s best friends. It was clear that Marius was aware of just how out of his depth he was, and hated it.

“If they’re not here for me, then they’re here to sell or to transport something, and I know almost all of the higher-ups in the ring from the past fifteen years,” Éponine said, trying to remain practical and unemotional. “Without my Dad holding my leash, I could have a dangerous affidavit.”

“You’re a loose end.” Joly said slowly.

They didn’t need to confirm it, and none of the Amis could say anything more about it because even Marius knew what that meant. In short, loose ends needed to be cut.

\-----

Enjolras stood painfully still, trying to absorb all of the information Grantaire and Éponine had just introduced to them. Of every emergency that had crossed his mind when getting Joly’s text, none of them came anywhere close to _this_. But there was no time to dwell on what he’d thought the issue would be, he had to focus on the actual problem.

His synapses were firing, trying to account for all of the loose factors and how they could deal with them. Sparks of memory were flickering in the back of his mind, and promising to return to them later, he stored them away.

The sound of shifting canvas drew him out of his internal organization and back to the present. Grantaire had moved back to the hallway closet and the duffel bags he’d abandoned earlier on the floor.

“Where are you going?” Enjolras asked perplexed.

Grantaire had trusted them. By his own choice, he had opened up to him about part of his past. Even though it was more Éponine’s story than his, it was still a huge step in trust for him to let go of that much. Why was he still packing?

“Where do you think? You’ve heard our story,” Grantaire said defeated. “They didn’t come after us before because they didn’t know about me, and didn’t want to go through the police, but enough water’s gone under the bridge where she could easily become a Jane Doe. I’m just trying to make sure we escape with our lives, Enj.”

His stomach traitorously clenched at the possibility that after everything Grantaire might just leave anyway.

“You’re not running,” he said resolutely, trying not to sound like a stubborn, impetuous child. “We can fight this.”

They had to fight this. This was the first time he’d seen his friend in almost two months, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“How?” Grantaire demanded, throwing his hands up in the air with a voice that sounded far more defeated and heartbroken than angry. “What do you think you could possibly do without putting us on police or ‘Parnasse’s radar? They’re untouchable.”

At Grantaire’s frustratingly true words, Enjolras forced himself out of the unhelpfully emotional mindset, and returned back to his mental situation room. Compartmentalize and refocus, he thought to himself; treat it like a game of chess. He lacked important information about Claquesous’ presence on campus, and possible resources in town to make an educated next move.

“For all you know they’re trying to draw you out of hiding, so just slow down and let us come up with a plan.” Enjolras said thoughtfully.

As he’d expected, that slowed down Grantaire’s panicked escape, and gave him pause to better assess the situation. Strategies and information ran through his mind, and Enjolras was already sifting through the best possible outcomes.

“We need to know exactly what Claquesous is doing here before we do anything,” he said with certainty in his voice. “Grantaire, Éponine, you two can’t leave your apartment until we know more.”

He could tell that Éponine wanted to protest, wanted to say something against the house arrest but he held up his hand to stop her before she could say anything.

“For everyone who’s willing, I would like to go into hibernation here for the forseeable future, to ensure Grantaire and Éponine’s safety,” he said, hoping that the Amis would agree. It was a small apartment that could quickly become cramped with ten college kids camped out in the living room, but it was worth it if they could protect their friends.

Thankfully, he could already see a good handful of the Amis nodding along and clapping Éponine and Grantaire on the shoulder and back reassuringly.

“No one should walk around campus alone until we know Claquesous is gone,” Combeferre added wisely. “If we’re going to be taking on a French mob boss, then we should take extra precautions.”

Enjolras nodded at his best friend, glad the man had thought to bring it up.

“Courfeyrac and I can find out who Claquesous’ been talking to on campus,” Jehan said almost instantly. “He’s probably trying to deal to other freshman, but if he’s searching for Ep, then we don’t have a lot of time before he realizes she’s not living on-campus.”

Enjolras nodded at the poet. He couldn’t think of anyone better to ask around the freshmen housing. Courfeyrac probably knew more of the freshmen class than all of them combined, and Jehan could get into the buildings, being a freshman himself. It also didn’t hurt that no one on earth had the power to dislike either of them.

He turned to the rest of the group, eager to see what other jobs they could conceptualize and assign Amis members to. In a strange way, it felt exactly like planning one of their rallies. They divided up areas to reach, people to talk to, and information to uncover. They could just as easily be planning for war or a food drive, the environment was so familiar. And yet, Éponine and Grantaire’s lives might be at stake.

“Well, if the Patron-Minette is trying to sell, odds are they either have a contact in town, or are trying to set one up,” Feuilly said wisely. “They wouldn’t send the second in command this far out just to sell or stop over in this town. Give me Bahorel and Joly, and I can find out if they already have a plant, or if they’re just scoping out the area.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. Feuilly’s job at the manufacturing plant meant that he was in a strategic location to keep an eye on a good portion of the town, but Joly’s volunteer work at the local hospital, and Bahorel’s familiarity with almost every local establishment gave them enough wide-spread recognition that they probably could cover the entire town.

What excited Enjolras even more though, was Feuilly’s suggestion that they could be scoping out the area to decide whether or not it was a worthy stopping point on a drug route. That was certainly a reason to send out a second in command to investigate.

“If they’re still scoping out the area, they might be convinced it isn’t worth a stop on the route,” Enjolras said triumphantly, snatching at the small hope and hanging on to it.

“How?” Grantaire asked with a weary scoff. “We’re in a fairly large college town with a national railroad moving through it. We couldn’t be more perfect for them.”

At the moment, Enjolras couldn’t dispute the logic. For all intents and purposes, they were the ideal stopover on a drug route. Grantaire was looking sideways at him, weary and sad, as if they were charging headfirst into a battle they couldn’t hope to win, and all Enjolras wanted to do was break the leader persona and promise him that it would all be okay somehow. Instead, he filed away the possibility, and turned back to the group.

“Bossuet, Combeferre, Marius, I need you on research duty,” he said, voice growing stoic again. “Find any connection you can besides Éponine for why they might be here, and if they’ve been here before. Cosette, since you have to go home later, can you take first round of staying with Éponine and Grantaire? Tonight, everyone reconvene here with your clothes, work, and whatever else you might need.”

Cosette nodded when he addressed her, and everyone started to shuffle around, talking to the people they were grouped with. Enjolras took in the scene with pride, amazed by how quickly his friends became his lieutenants.

Before he could refocus on the concerns itching the back of his mind, he felt Grantaire’s hand on his forearm. Enjolras turned to face him, and was met with Grantaire’s incredulous expression. His mouth hung open and his head was tilted, skepticism hung on his every feature, save his eyes. His eyes refused to hold anything but sadness.

“This is all great in theory, Enjolras, but I need to work,” Grantaire said, clearly frustrated. “We can’t pay bills and rent without it. Not to mention food.”

Enjolras grinned at the first easy problem that he’d been presented with all day, and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. With careful ease, he pulled out the credit card his father had given him for college, and handed it over to the cynic without a second thought.

“Take it.”

“No,” Grantaire said after a moment, shaking his head and backing away. “I could never owe you so much.”

Of course it was too much to ask, for any task to be simple with Grantaire. But this problem was such a small one in comparison to everything else that he’d learned today. Enjolras refused for this to become a large complex issue.

“Just once, can you trust that I want to help?”

“Why?”

Wasn’t it obvious already? Enjolras opened his mouth several times, but closed it again as words abandoned him. There was too much he had left to sort through. Suspicious memories that were starting to align, questions that he needed to find the answers to. Finally, he grabbed hold of the simplest response he could think to give to Grantaire.

“I don’t want to see you run out of your home, and I definitely don’t want you or Éponine dead. Given a little time I think we can fix it. Let me try.”

The cynic stared at him for several seconds, before gently reaching out and taking the credit card from between his fingers. The movements were slow and careful; Grantaire’s eyes flicked back and forth between the credit card in his fingers and Enjolras’ face, as if expecting him to have a change of heart.

When Grantaire finally had his father’s card in his possession, Enjolras afforded him a thankful smile, and left to make his own preparations. Almost everyone, save Cosette was leaving to get to work on whatever their assigned task was. Enjolras himself was already making plans and running through his schedule for the next day, wondering how fast he could clear it.

Before he could dash back to his dorm room, back to his computer, Combeferre pulled him over at the bottom of the stairs, a doubtful look upon his face. 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre began carefully. “You haven’t said what you plan to do yet.”

He couldn’t explain it to Combeferre when he had yet to go through everything in his own mind yet. The things his mind was suggesting, he wanted to call them impossible but with everything he’d just heard it was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He needed to entertain them as possibilities, carry through with the implications of such ideas, and then determine what to do with them.

However, if he was being honest, he would admit that his mind was already made up.

“I have a hunch that I need to explore,” he finally said to his best friend in explanation. “I swear I won’t do anything rash.”

Combeferre sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You always do something rash.”

And yet, the philosophy major dropped his grip on his shoulder, and nodded. With Combeferre’s blessing he grinned slightly, then left the apartment to seek out Bahorel.


	2. Distract Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I missed posting yesterday! My schedule was freakishly busy, but I'm updating early today! Hope you like it.

Éponine squinted at the floor in the dark, trying to discern safe patches of ground to step on, so she didn’t accidentally land on an Amis. The floor was covered in sleeping bags, and she really wasn’t used to climbing over bodies to navigate through her apartment.

It was still so surreal to her. Her life hadn’t exactly lined up with Joe Normal since they ran away, but it was much closer than it had ever been before. Grantaire’s panic attacks and fear of people kept things interesting, and she spent most of high school keeping her head down, but they’d finally found their rhythm. She got a crush on a boy who only saw her as just there (and as much as it sucked, it was also kind of wonderful to worry about something so normal), classes were difficult, and they had money troubles. She had gotten used to those problems being her life.

Worrying about the gang members who she’d been whored out to for most of her childhood coming to kill her was a bit disorienting, to say the least.

She had been seven years old and on her way to becoming a bitter, nasty person when she’d met Grantaire. Éponine had stopped seeing her bedroom, her closet, her food, or even her body as things she owned, because her Dad could just take them and use them whenever he wanted. She had just wanted to take something back that she’d tried to yell at Grantaire on the playground one day, and he just agreed with her. She followed him home and raided his fridge, and he just looked pleased by her presence. For the first few days, all Éponine did was take from Grantaire, but then she saw the way the other kids treated him.

Suddenly, Grantaire became the anchor to tie herself to. If she possessed nothing else, he was _hers_ , and therefore hers to care for. If he was bullied at school, it gave her a reason to become tough enough to protect him. And in turn, he opened his arms to her. Whatever security she couldn’t have at home, she would find in his house. If she felt helpless or worthless under her father’s control, he would find a way to let her be powerful and needed. And when they both needed to, Grantaire took her away.

She hadn’t felt weak against others since then. He had bought her a pocket knife, and it turned into a collection. No one could touch her without her say-so, and it helped her put the past to rest. Everything that happened to her felt like memories from another life, or vague wisps of dreams.

Now she had so much, and no one was going to let her lose it. Jehan and Courfeyrac had returned first, three hours after they’d left for the freshman dorms with (somewhat) good news. A few of the guys there recognized Claquesous and said that he was offering them some good quality mescaline, but also mentioned that he could get coke, molly, and heroin. While it didn’t prove anything, Éponine felt much more comfortable in the belief that Claquesous didn’t know she was here.

Jehan had also volunteered to talk to Vince about Grantaire needing to take a week (they all figured that for better or worse, Claquesous would probably be gone in a week’s time) off from work at the Earl. When he came back upstairs afterwards, the poet was all bubbly after a pleasant conversation. Not that it was much of a surprise, because Éponine half wanted Vince Hannigan to adopt her at times.

“Did you know your landlord was a Zen Buddhist?” he asked them with a smile.

Grantaire and Éponine had turned to look at each other puzzlingly for a moment before shaking their heads and saying, “No.”

“That’s alright,” Jehan reassured them with a shrug. “Neither does he.”

Slowly, the others began to return, all of them bringing hibernation bags with them. But then sunset had rolled around, and no one had seen Enjolras. Grantaire had, of course, started panicking. Despite Combeferre saying that Enjolras had wanted to check something, and had probably lost track of time in the library, her roommate wouldn’t be calmed.

It was strange to see Grantaire losing control so thoroughly in front of anyone who wasn’t her, let alone almost all of the Amis. When he’d started pacing and hyperventilating, babbling mindlessly about terrible things that could’ve happened, everyone had turned to her helplessly. They had never seen him like this, and had no way of knowing that this was what her best friend looked like every time he ran away from them.

And what’s worse, nothing she did would calm him down. When she grabbed onto his hands, he would pull away as if she’d burned him, and when she tried to get him to sit, he’d fidget and twitch until she let him up again. At a loss for what to do, she’d slipped two sleeping pills into a glass of water, and told him to drink it.

No one talked about where Enjolras had disappeared to.

Now though, everyone was asleep across the floor of their living room, and Éponine was trying to get through to the hallway (where Marius and Joly had cleverly chosen to sleep) to the end of the apartment. Because if she could see the front door to their apartment without any eyes on her, maybe she would be able to decide what she wanted to do.

This was her fight and no one else’s. And even though they wanted to make it their fight as well, she wasn’t sure if she could let them risk that for her.

When she turned the corner to the tiny little kitchenette, she was surprised to see the counter lit up by the light of a cell phone, and Bossuet standing awkwardly in the center picking at the remains of the “You’re Gay” Cake that Courfeyrac had made for Grantaire so long ago.

So much for that plan. Giving up any hope of making up her mind right now, she changed courses and headed for the kitchenette.

“I already got you a fork,” Bossuet whispered and held it out to her as she climbed over the last sleeping body.

“You knew I’d be up?”

“I figured someone would be,” he amended with a grin. “If you hadn’t noticed, it’s been a bit of a day.”

“That would explain all the squatters,” she shot back with a smile, taking the proffered fork from his hands and taking a bite herself.

To be honest, she was glad that it was Bossuet she’d found still awake. The bald man had an incredible talent to turn misfortune into something to be laughed at, and she really didn’t want to be dwelling on it the way everyone expected her to. Her past was hideous and her present was wonderful; now she just had to fight for it a bit. Éponine refused to see it as anything more than that.

“I can’t believe you still have this cake,” he said with a chuckle, forgoing plates and knives for just a fork.

“It’s amazing what refrigerators can do these days.”

Bossuet looked down at the counter, and she could see a troubled look on his face. He wanted to ask her questions, or express his sympathy over her past, or even find out what the hell happened to Grantaire, and she just couldn’t.

“Don’t,” she said before he had the chance to think of a question, hoping it conveyed how much she wanted to distance herself from it.

“Then what?” he asked with an understanding smile.

“Anything,” she said, shrugging tiredly and hoping that it didn’t show. “How did you three happen? I never got to hear the story.”

The bald grad student chuckled with his entire body, shoulders shaking slightly from the reaction.

“It’s a bizarre story.”

“Perfect,” she said in response and took another bite of the gayke.

“Well, it started when I was a freshman and Joly did one of those overnight visits as a prospie. We got along kinda perfectly. When he enrolled the next year he hunted me down, and we started rooming together second semester,” Bossuet said. “We both considered ourselves straight, and still do. He’s just… my exception, I guess.”

“No kidding,” Éponine said with a smirk.

“Never know when a neurotic twig will suddenly become your type. Well, neither of us handled it well at first,” he said with a laugh. “We got jumpy around each other, then things got weird, and then it all came out and it was hysterical. We couldn’t stop laughing over how completely ridiculous it was, and how stupid we’d both been.”

Éponine grinned, easily imagining the two, who were against all odds, both considered the happy ones.

“We tried to be in a gay relationship, but we both kinda sucked at it.”

“How does one suck at being in a gay relationship?” she asked with a smile, glad that this was the question she’d asked. Bossuet had one of the most animated faces ever, and so he happened to be one of the best storytellers in the entire group.

“Well, you know guys who tell their girlfriends that they don’t like porn because it’s poorly lit, has corny music, no story, or is poorly acted?”

“Yeah,” she said, having a feeling she knew where this was going.

“Well, we pretty much proved that we weren’t gay, but I did walk away from that night of research wondering if we were somehow in a lesbian relationship.”

“Let me guess; corny music?”

“Oh yeah,” he nodded exaggeratedly, making a face. “But no matter how much we sucked at it on paper, we worked. And then Joly met Musichetta. He introduced us, and I think all three of us secretly freaked out about it. I didn’t want to ruin what I had with Joly, but I still considered myself straight, and I know he did the same song-and-dance. So none of us said anything; Musichetta didn’t know we were in a relationship, Joly and I didn’t admit we were attracted to her.”

“Then how did it happen?”

“The same way it happened with Joly. We were all hanging out and watching a movie, and everything just fell apart. And then somehow, it all came together. We talked, and it just sort of became what it is.”

“How long have you three been dating?” Éponine asked, curiously.

“Almost four years now,” he replied with a soft smile.

Éponine smiled and nudged him with her shoulder, before taking another bite of cake. By now, enough was gone that the cake just read “ _Yo Ga_ ” but it still warmed her heart. In a way, all of it did. There were eight guys sleeping on her floor specifically because they were worried about her. It was hard to believe that people really did that.

“Can I ask you a question?” Bossuet said, and she immediately tensed up.

“I don’t know; can you?” she shot back at him, a mix between defensive and joking.

Éponine trusted them, she really did. And she wanted to be free from the past looming over her head. It was just hard to undo so many years of instinct.

“Oh, you’re right. The power of semantics is forbidding it,” he quipped to reassure her. “Combeferre mentioned that you were interested in our homeless and orphanage programs when you first joined up. I was just curious as to why?”

That was not what Éponine had been expecting. Her face morphed into a slight scowl of confusion. Of course Bossuet wouldn’t know that it was another sore topic of hers, but she couldn’t help but the discomfort that came over her. Gavroche had been another thing that her Dad had taken from her and heartlessly abandoned. He had barely been three years old at the time.

She wanted to be free from her past, Éponine reminded herself. The truth sets you free.

“Most of the time, Parnasse sent buyers over to us to make deals,” she said with a shrug, trying to remain casual. “Once we went to them, and…”

That was all she could force herself to say. Because the many gang members that had laid their hands on her, and had forced themselves on her, they were just a long line of bodies in her mind. They had been as much moving objects to her back then as her own body. There were a few exceptions, Montparnasse particularly, but there was a difference in her mind between forces that were pushed on her, and forces that took away from her. Those bodies of gang members pushed, but she could turn her mind off and dissociate until they stopped pushing and went away. Montparnasse took. Her father took. And that was what she remembered most.

“I had a brother and sister you know,” she said with a scowl burning on her face, determined to try again.

“No, I didn’t know that.”

The truth sets you free, she reminded herself.

“Yeah, Azelma and Gavroche,” she said, tasting the names on her mouth for the first time in years. “Azelma was three years younger than me, and Mom’s favorite child. Although it wasn’t really much of a contest; Mom never wanted a son, and as the oldest, my fate was already sealed. Azelma was the protected one, so I never really had much of a relationship with her. Too much on my own plate, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Bossuet nodded sympathetically. “What about your brother?”

“Gavroche should be thirteen, fourteen years old by now,” she said carefully, struggling to say it. “If he’s still alive.”

Bossuet dropped his fork onto the cake pan and turned to look at her, his face looking shocked and sad. Éponine dipped her head and stared intently at the lettering on the gayke, trying to keep her expression neutral.

“You’re not sure?”

“He was three years old when we went on that business trip with Dad. I was eight,” she said, trying to come out with it and just say what she had to. The truth sets you free, she reminded herself. “One day we were all staying in a hotel room, the next my parents had abandoned him on the streets of New York and there were only four plane tickets back home.”

“What?” Bossuet demanded urgently, standing up straight and moving away from the cake on the counter so he could focus all of his attention on her.

“What?” she asked back, instantly nervous.

“Fuck!” he hissed and grabbed his illuminated phone from the counter, his other hand tapping out an impatient rhythm against his hips.

“What?” she asked again, this time putting force behind the words.

“With my luck, you stop believing in coincidence,” he said, eyes still focused on the phone. “By New York, you meant Manhattan, right?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck,” he repeated.

“Is that important?” Éponine hissed.

“If your father had to go to Manhattan to see the boss, odds are that’s the Patron-Minette’s base of operations,” Bossuet said as he scrolled through the contacts on his phone, ignoring her puzzled expression. “Guess where Enjolras was born and raised?”

Éponine’s eyes widened at that. Even though the blond leader had no way of knowing where their base was, it probably couldn’t take long to figure it out if he asked around the right places. And didn’t New Yorker’s have a general idea of where the “bad areas” were? An instant later, Bossuet had pressed a button and she could hear the phone ringing. Enjolras had a tendency to be impulsive, and his disappearance had set most of them on edge. If he was going to try confronting Montparnasse on his own…

The phone rang a few more times, then there was a pause, and Enjolras’ gruff voice came on.

“Has something happened?” their leader asked in lieu of a greeting.

“Enjolras, where the fuck are you?” Bossuet hissed, anxiety turning very quickly into anger.

There was a pause, and then, “On a train to Manhattan.”

“Oh good, and here I thought you were about to do something stupid,” he snapped. “Why the hell are you going to New York?”

“I had a hunch that I needed to follow up on. If I’m correct, it may lead to a way to get the Patron-Minette out of the town for good.”

“What?” Éponine hissed, if only to keep from shouting at the blond’s careful words.

“I’ll be back by tomorrow evening,” Enjolras said succinctly. “Make sure the others don’t worry.”

And with that, Enjolras actually had the nerve to hang up on them. Nothing else to do, Éponine and Bossuet stared at each other blankly.

She couldn’t think of a single way to explain this one to Grantaire.

\-----

Enjolras was jolted awake again by the lurch of a train stopping, ripped from that same dream again, gasping and sweating instead of calling out. The call from Bossuet earlier had concerned him, and the tumult in his mind weighed heavy, but Enjolras had been on trains many times in his life, and they never failed to put him to sleep.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d had his dream again tonight; the boy from eleven years ago had never really left his mind. After all, the mysterious child had utterly changed his life without realizing it, who had woken him up to his father’s snobbery and greed and sparked in him the need to fight for the people who society forgot. He always dreamed about that little kid before he went home to visit his family or before a rally, and he used to write it off as the enigma behind the person who had changed his life.

The moment Grantaire and Éponine explained to them who Claquesous was, Enjolras had begun to have his suspicions. Drug rings and gang wars were large issues, and the criminal underbelly of society was a difficult topic to ignore when he started to grow old enough to explore the city unsupervised. However, in his youth he’d been far too busy learning about the state of the country and the world. Enjolras had been trying to find his place in it, especially in the context of his father’s company. Mobs and drug smuggling never found a place in the forefront of his mind; and therefore, it was one of the issues that he knew little about.

But these diseases of society worked under the guise of legitimate business, and so if he recognized the name of Claquesous, it was probably through business. Enjolras hadn’t even spared a moment’s thought to the implications of his father dealing with mobs, just the possibilities that came from it. He thought of the necessity of records, to keep business dealings and money transactions organized, and tried to recall the lessons his father had taught him back when he was eight years old. There had been a few about such a book of records, a ledger to be kept safe at all times. In his mind, he was already back in the Upper East Side, rooting through his father’s home office for possible safe boxes.

But then, Grantaire had said something offhandedly that had thrown Enjolras’ cognitive abilities completely off kilter. _“When I finally decided to run away, I showed up at her window to get her out and we drove off into the sunset…”_ It was such an insignificant detail, mostly said to calm down their friends after hearing the news about Éponine’s tragic home life. But that tiny detail changed everything.

He showed up at her window.

The boy at the motel window from eleven years ago, all sharp features, wild dark hair, and enormous blue eyes, had looked at him for a second before mumbling “ _sorry, wrong room_ ” and taking off. Enjolras had tried to call out for him to wait, but had only managed to stick his head out the window to see the kid trip and skin his knees, not letting it deter him from escaping.

For a long time now, Enjolras had understood that the boy wasn’t there for his father, but he never quite understood who or what he’d been trying to find at a run-down motel. He’d never given it too much thought, because any questions about the boy’s life would never have been answered. The boy was a symbol, a turning point in Enjolras’ life and nothing more.

Now Enjolras couldn’t help but wonder if the answers were in front of him. Maybe that boy was looking for the innkeeper’s daughter.

The way out of Grand Central Station, towards the subways that would lead him to his apartment was second nature to him by now. If he wanted, Enjolras could probably sleepwalk home. He didn’t need to worry about his parents; he vaguely remembered from a brief phone call with his mother weeks ago that they would be at a company event in Switzerland all week. The doorman remembered him well enough, and he had his own keys. His father’s continued hope that Enjolras would take over the family business offered him specialized information to security secrets even his mother was unaware of.

If Enjolras believed in fate, he might’ve thought that he was meant to find Grantaire. As it was, for the first time Enjolras felt lucky for the family he was born into.

He unlocked the doors to the apartment, then immediately went to his father’s office door and plugged in the standard security key. A grand mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room, with lush bookcases behind him. File cabinets stood against one wall, and against the other was the window and the balcony.

Enjolras looked behind rows of well-kept old books, and moved the file cabinets, even pulled back the rug to look for any kind of safe. Just as he was about to worry that his father kept his ledger in his office, he bumped into the gigantic desk, and an idea struck him.

Even though he put an effort into keeping in shape, it took all of his energy to move the mahogany desk. But when he saw the corner of a loose floorboard underneath the rug, it was entirely worth it. Not wasting the energy to wish for Bahorel’s help, he continued to push until the entire fake paneling was open. He pulled it away to reveal a tiny floor safe. Enjolras couldn’t help but scoff at the needless extravagance of the cliché, before looking around the room again for any indication of a pin number.

His father always told him to change his security codes weekly, and never to make them personal. A four digit number could be anything, and therefore easy to forget if changed weekly. So his father told him to leave an obvious hint that no one else would understand just in case. Most decorative pieces in the room were nailed to the walls or floors, unchangeable, so that couldn’t be it. His father would never hide the combination in a file or book, so it was pointless to dig through the endless shelves.

Slowly, he walked out of the office and walked through the immaculate rooms of his parents’ home. His father wouldn’t move the hint, especially if he was leaving town for the week. Not a single pen was out of place, and as always, it was a peculiar change to see the painful level of order enforced in the house after getting used to college life. None of his friends were shamefully disorganized, but there was a level of comfort in their rooms, or places like the Musain and the Corinth that made them feel lived in. His parents’ apartment was elegant, but just felt occupied at best.

He reached his parents’ room, and couldn’t help the victorious grin that stretched across his face. On his father’s bedside table sat his lamp, but also a single book. Enjolras made his way over, and picked it up carefully. Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut.

How fitting to his father.

He turned it over in his hands and saw the bottom corner of page 78 was dog-eared. Enjolras opened up to the page and examined the bookmark, carefully lined up underneath the third to last line on the page. And on that particular line there was only one four letter word. _What._

After gently returning the book to its original spot on the side table, Enjolras headed back downstairs, making sure to close all doors behind him. Finally he returned to the safe, which didn’t have corresponding letters on the number buttons, so he checked the lock screen on his iPhone to translate the word into the pin number “9428.” With only a tense breath to show his anxiety, he pressed the # button.

The safe opened.

Sometimes, he truly was his father’s protégé, Enjolras thought scornfully.

On top of a couple of business piles sat a simple leather-bound notebook. He reached for it immediately and opened it to a random page. There were lists of names, dates, and numbers, with occasional notes by some transactions. It was definitely the ledger. He flipped through some of the more recent pages, and was pleased to see the name Montparnasse appear amongst the transactions. A few page turns later, and the name Thénardier appeared as well.

Enjolras sat down on the floor and pressed the palms of his hands against his closed eyelids, sighing loudly. Every possibility running through his mind might as well have been confirmed. The boy at the window who changed his life could have been Grantaire. Probably was Grantaire.

Enjolras couldn’t even begin to think about that. Not here, where all he could afford to think about was how to help Éponine. And not now, when his thoughts on the cynic were so muddled that he couldn’t decipher his own feelings.

_“Sorry, wrong room.”_

Grantaire had been looking for Éponine: his best friend. So why had he knocked on Enjolras’ window? Surely if Grantaire was comfortable showing up uninvited to Éponine’s window by that point in their friendship, then he should’ve known which window was hers.

“ _My Dad was a clever businessman… treated mob guests to the best in customer service,”_

Enjolras’ jaw clenched tightly as his mind ran through everything Éponine had said about her father’s business deals. Had her father kicked her out of her own bedroom so Enjolras could stay in one of the nicer rooms? His posture stiffened even more as he tried to remember more of that night. Enjolras had been stuffed full of Nyquil and abandoned in that motel room; when his father returned, he’d been long asleep. What other benefits had his father reaped from their overnight stay?

In that instant, Enjolras wanted to set fire to his parents’ perfect, spotless apartment. Instead, he tucked the ledger into his messenger bag, closed the safe, and moved everything in the office back to its original position. After double and triple checking everything, he finally closed the office door and let himself out of the apartment.

He wanted to get back home as quickly as possible. Maybe the rocking of the train would help with the nausea curling like acid in his stomach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting quite a book list going for this fic! Maybe at the end, I'll bring that back somehow. Not in story, but a little book/TV/movie list in the author's notes.


	3. Shield Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems I've switched from a once-a-week schedule to an eight day schedule. I'm so sorry guys! But I've just started school again and my computer has broken four times and doesn't have internet. Thanks for putting up with me!

It wasn’t wise to visit Éponine and the others at her and Grantaire’s apartment, especially since she couldn’t stay with them, but there was nothing wrong with meeting her boyfriend for lunch. Marius had texted her saying that things were already insane, and that he missed her, so they planned to grab a bite to eat and then go to the library to talk about it.

Cosette arrived at the Quickie (a stand selling quick food for students that didn’t have time to go to the cafeteria before classes) before Marius, and hummed some song in the back of her mind for a moment, before cutting off abruptly. She couldn’t help it; she was nervous.

Of course, they all were. Yesterday evening they’d gone from a group of students to vigilante mob hunters. Cosette still couldn’t believe everything she’d heard about Éponine and Grantaire’s past, and the terrible things that had happened to them Just in case, she’d taken as many extra precautions as she could to keep everyone safe. She’d carefully placed dimes in the corners of all the doorframes and window frames of the apartment, and wore gingko leaves (she had pressed some of the fallen leaves last autumn before and after they turned yellow) in her hair.

When she’d explained how dimes were underestimated because they were the tiniest coin, and underappreciated for trying to bring the order to an entropic currency system, Éponine had just laughed and nodded along. Cosette would’ve been ruffled about it, but the olive skinned girl let her leave the dimes, and promised not to move them.

This morning she’d woken up for Thursday classes as usual, and dressed in browns and pinks, before pulling out the green gingko leaves and weaving them into her low bun. The air was still cold for mid-March, and there was still snow on the ground but she put on flip-flops anyway, to defy nature. After all, disobeying the weather almost always made her feel powerful when she was anything but.

After waiting for almost a minute and still not seeing Marius, even the flip flops couldn’t comfort her, and she ran into the building a few feet away. It was the campus convenience store, and she didn’t need to buy anything from there, but it felt good to be indoors.

When Cosette had gone on research duty, she’d tried to find pictures of Claquesous to give everyone a reference, but there was nothing. It hadn’t seemed possible; even Montparnasse had an electronic trail, and a face to put to the name with a careful internet search. His second in command however, didn’t seem to have a face or a name. He was invisible, and that was terrifying.

She walked slowly through the tiny aisles, avoiding the shelves full of ramen, and moving closer to the candy shelves. Perhaps she would buy some Mentos for later; because they always looked like bird food for people when she was a child, and that had appealed to her.

“So you’re the off-campus freshman?” A smooth voice spoke behind her, carrying a little bit of a lisp, and Cosette jumped, and spun around.

There was no one there.

“Over hear, my dear,” the voice said again.

Cosette spun around, this time to her side, to see a tall man in the next aisle smiling down at her. He looked to be in his early forties, and had a face that made his teeth look way too large. More importantly though he wasn’t wearing a campus staff shirt; he didn’t work here. Her eyes widened, and it took all of her energy not to back away.

“You startled me,” she said nervously, placing a hand over her chest and pretending that she was no longer terrified.

“My apologies, dear,” he said, walking around the line of shelves in between them, and joining her in the junk food aisle. “I’m a ventriloquist you see, and if I don’t keep my skills up then I fear I’ll lose it.”

“Yes of course,” Cosette said faintly and turned to focus intently on the shelves of candy, praying that Marius would come soon and would think to look for her in the store. “That would be terribly rude to your vocal chords to forget them like that.”

“Finally, one who understands,” the man said grandly, and picked up a snickers. “Truly this is cause for celebration. You can call me Cabuc. What, pray tell, is your name?”

In that moment, Cosette felt trapped and nauseous. Marius had a habit of saying _pray tell_ far too often, and it always made her giggle. Hearing it from that purposefully extravagant voice brought goosebumps to her skin, and made her want to cry for Marius to get here soon. Because regardless of the name he gave her, Cosette was sure that this man was Claquesous.

She debated frantically which name to offer; she never used her given name, and if he asked around and no one recognized the name, he might think she lied to him. And yet, her nickname was something she possessed, not something she was burdened with. To give Claquesous her preferred name, he would possess a small part of her. But if she were to lie and he were to find out, he would know that she knew to be afraid of him.

“Cosette,” she said finally, plastering a fake smile on her face. He had her nickname in his ears now, and she had to fight back tears.

He took another two steps closer to her, and it took all her willpower not to back away. Bahorel was both taller and broader than this man, but the ginger had never felt like a threat the same way Claquesous did. Granted, Bahorel always had a strange awareness of himself, causing him to show unusually reassuring restraint. Claquesous seemed to have that same awareness of himself, and used it to make her as uncomfortable as possible without overstepping socially accepted customs. All she could see were those gleaming, too large teeth and somewhat terrifying gums opening wide and devouring her.

“Cosette,” he repeated, and her name sounded like wax smudges on wooden tables to her ears. “How would you like to make a little extra pocket money without having to work so many hours a week?”

Her eyes widened and she wondered for a moment if it was possible to swallow her own tongue. He had recognized her specifically as the freshman who lived off-campus, and was asking if she wanted to sell drugs to the other students.

She was the contact.

“Work is not man's punishment,” she said impulsively, trying to avoid the mobster’s gaze without making her discomfort apparent. “It is his reward and his strength and his pleasure.”

Normally when she fell back on her typical whimsy people wrote her off as strange, and left her alone. Even being a blonde helped, because she could play dumb far too well.

Instead of the negative response she was expecting, he just chuckled and asked, “Who said that?”

“George Sand,” she replied.

“Yeah, well he needed to put his feet up and relax on occasion. You’re a college kid. You should be allowed to have a little fun, break a few rules, and make a few bucks while you’re at it.”

Cosette didn’t correct him and explain that George Sand was a female writer of the nineteenth century. She wanted to take off her clearly faulty flip flops, put on her fuzzy killer rabbit slippers, and curl up in Marius’ arms and hide away. Claquesous wasn’t expressly explaining that he was asking her to sell drugs, so he knew that she already knew. Of course, he probably thought she’d heard it from other freshmen so the toothy, gummy smile stayed on his face.

“Why me?” she asked softly, not bothering to play dumb anymore.

“You’re a high class beauty with all of college ahead of you,” he said as if it were obvious. “Long blond hair, big brown doe eyes, and living off campus in that big house of yours with Daddy. No one would ever suspect. You’d be perfect, dear.”

On his last sentence he reached up and stroked her jaw, ignoring her when she tried to jerk away. It took all her effort not to burst into tears at this point. All she could think was that he knew where she lived, and he was trying to make her the mob’s contact.

When she was a child and things scared her, Cosette used to bottle them up in an old jam jar and place it on the sunniest window sill she could find. The lingering scent of strawberries, fireflies, and summer would bleach away the fear and negativity. But it was winter and there was no way to bottle up a viable threat.

Claquesous grinned again, and maybe he knew that he’d already won. Because now he had just threatened her Papa, and there wasn’t much in the world that she wouldn’t do for him. She reached behind her head, but couldn’t feel the gingko leaves that were supposed to be nestled safely in her hair. Maybe they had been too afraid of Claquesous to stay and protect her.

“Hey Cosette, there you are!”

She nearly sobbed in relief and sudden terror when Marius bounded up to them, looking even more like an excitable beagle than usual, with a white knit hat on his head complete with ear flaps and everything. Cosette needed him to be holding her, smelling like firewood and soap. But she was a target now, and that put him at risk.

Her mouth opened, hoping that by the time her vocal chords remembered how to speak she’ll have come up with some brilliant way to save the situation, but instead she remained mute. Her boyfriend looked Claquesous up and down, eyes narrowing when he took in the age and thankfully made the connection. Without a word, Marius inserted himself in between her and the mobster, wrapping his arms around her shoulders defensively.

“Just think about it dear,” Claquesous said with an extravagant little twirl of the fingers, making it look like he’d just saluted and bowed. Then, with another toothy, gummy smile, he turned and left the store.

Before Marius could turn to face her and ask if she was okay, she had already burst into tears.

\-----

Marius wrapped his arms around his girlfriend and let her sob into his shoulder, unsure what to say or do to help her. Was he supposed to tell her that everything would be okay? The words felt bitter on his tongue so they never escaped. After all, if he were to tell her that it would be okay, she could ask him how. And for that, he had no answer.

Because it wouldn’t be okay, would it? Yesterday he’d found out that one of his best friends had been repeatedly raped throughout her entire life, because her father gave her out to his customers.

Was there some sort of procedure for how to handle this? The rest of the Amis all seemed to have a response ready; Enjolras mobilized the group and sent them into battle, Feuilly grabbed Bahorel and Joly and somehow planned to comb through the entire town to find any possible contacts, Jehan took off to go talk to the freshmen with his roommate. And all Marius could do was wonder how many times Éponine had to get tested for STDs before she’d even gotten her first period.

Marius knew that he wasn’t quite as perceptive as most of his other friends. At times he was a tad oblivious, and had a tendency to not hear what he was saying. With the Amis, it was hard not to know your flaws because they had fun pointing them out. But it was never too noticeable to upset him. If Marius got a few groans of “Oh Pontmercy” thrown at him from time to time then he didn’t mind all that much.

But this was different. Now, Éponine’s life was resting in their hands, and already, things in the group were starting to splinter under the pressure. Last night Bahorel had returned from his assigned duty to tell them that Enjolras had “ _something he needed to look into_ ” and “ _would be right back_.” And obviously, Grantaire had freaked. It had been terrifying, and when Éponine asked him under her breath to bring him a bottle of pills from their bathroom he’d been even more lost. They turned out to be only sleeping pills, but even so the experience left him shaken. He’d immediately texted Cosette and asked to see her.

Obviously, he hadn’t been expecting _this._

Marius had spent the majority of yesterday, and all of today reminding himself that he couldn’t afford to fuck anything up this time. And yet, as they started walking away from the convenience store, Cosette yanked on his arm and stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she demanded angrily, and he was sure that somehow, he’d missed something again.

“Back to ‘Ponine’s,” he said slowly, raising his voice on the last syllable to make it a hesitant question.

That seemed to be the wrong answer, because Cosette stared at him like he was growing a small vegetable garden in his hair. Actually no, strike that. Cosette probably would’ve been charmed and delighted if he had a vegetable garden in his hair. She looked at him as if he’d just sacrificed a puppy in the name of Satan.

“Is that wrong?” he asked finally when she just continued to stare at him, waiting for him to come to some obvious conclusion on his own.

“I can’t be seen anywhere near ‘Ponine and R’s apartment,” she said miserably as she tugged him in the opposite direction, pulling him towards her house. “Don’t you get it Marius? That was Claquesous!”

“I got that part,” he said with a nod, frustrated for not making the connection that everyone else in the group surely would’ve made by now.

“He was trying to get me to sell for him,” she explained miserably. “He knows where I live. He could go after Papa. He could easily follow me to ‘Ponine’s.”

Marius swallowed, and wondered if this was how it felt to fall victim to Midas’ touch. His stomach felt like lead as it hit him that this had suddenly gotten so much more dangerous. Now Cosette, _his Cosette_ was in danger as well, and unlike Éponine, she had to be holed away in her own house without an entire Hibernation of protection

He walked her home in silence, holding her hand to try and bring her some level of comfort. But when it came to Cosette, she didn’t take comfort from people so much as she took comfort from familiarity. According to her, people were transient, and any physical comfort was fleeting at best and unrecognizable at worst. But the creations of man outlast them, and hold with them the essence of the creator and the owner; they were imbibed with meaning and purpose.

Marius hadn’t understood it at first, and they had gotten into a huge fight about it in the earliest weeks of their relationship. He didn’t have the money that she did, and he yelled at her for taking his pens and other tiny things when she came over. She’d tried to explain that he could just take everything back from her, but he had been too pig-headed to listen and screamed at her about how he had to pay for those things, and she couldn’t understand because she was rich.

Later at dinner when he’d told Courfeyrac and Combeferre about it, his roommate had sighed, smacked him upside the head, and then explained.

“She told you how her Mother died, right?”

“Yeah,” he’d replied huffily, not sure where he was going. “She fell on hard times and had to sell herself to make money, and wound up with a bad STD.”

“No, how she physically died,” Courfeyrac said exasperatedly, shaking his head like Marius was an idiot. “She died crying and screaming for her. _Cosette, my baby, come back to me! Cosette, where did you go!_ Stuff like that. Cosette was in the room, holding her hand and her Mom didn’t even see her.”

Marius hadn’t known that, and at the time, he’d felt sick and stupid for not understanding how it all connected. Even Combeferre had sighed at that point, making the jump from that piece of information to Cosette’s kleptomania quirk. After staring at Courfeyrac blankly for several moments and realizing that he wasn’t going to get any more help from him, he turned to Combeferre, who’d indulged him.

“George Berkeley had a theory that we can’t know if anything truly exists outside of our perception,” he said slowly, but not condescendingly. “For example, if everyone in the world stopped looking at this plate, would the plate cease existing? Maybe to her, it’s the exact opposite. Outside of our perception, people change, and age, and even disappear. So things would hold more of a physical presence than people to her.”

Marius had turned to Courfeyrac for confirmation, and he’d nodded slowly. Although Courfeyrac’s indulgent nods were definitely condescending.

“By taking your goddamn pen, you continue to exist beyond when she can see you. Why do you think Jehan always makes her those little origami things out of my post-it notes when he stays over?”

He’d immediately gone and apologized to her, agreeing that she could take all of his pens if he could take hers when he needed them. Somehow, that must’ve been the best thing he could’ve said, because she’d pulled him into her room for the first time. Marius didn’t think there was a happier man alive than he had been that night.

Of course, there were still issues with the topic; he disliked how she stole the 25¢ gum at the campus convenience store counter and justified it by leaving 50¢ in the tip jar, and how she’d taken two cloth napkins from restaurants when they went out on dates. And there were dozens of tiny little Cosette-isms that he still had yet to figure out or have explained to him, but he had plenty of time to figure it out. He kept his discomfort to a minimum, and she tried to cut back on the petty theft.

They were nearly at her house when he realized that Cosette hadn’t stolen any 25¢ gum from the convenience store. Marius had resigned himself long ago to the fact that nothing he could do or say would keep her from stealing that gum. Claquesous had understandably left her shaken and distracted enough to forget a basic habit that brought her comfort.

Hugging and kissing her wouldn’t comfort her. As for words… if there were any correct words, Marius certainly wasn’t likely to figure out what they were. They reached her front door, and after a couple of seconds, he decided what to do. He looked down at his hands and pulled off his black gloves before handing them to her. They cost all of three dollars at Wal-Mart, but looking at Cosette’s watery smile, he thought he might’ve just given her something precious.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, and she pulled them on immediately, using them to cover her face as she tried not to burst into tears again.

“It’ll be okay,” Marius promised her impulsively as he wrapped his hands in her newly gloved ones.

She didn’t ask him how or why, just smiled again and walked inside, closing her front door behind her.

It was a stupid promise to make, but he always kept his promises. Now he just needed to find a way to make it true. They were dealing with mobsters and gangs, and Enjolras was nowhere to be found. The Amis were in way over their heads this time, and Marius couldn’t even comprehend what was happening or what to do. Except there was one very obvious thing that they could be doing, he realized. The one thing that they probably should do.

His mind made up, he raced down the street, trying not to focus on the stinging cold in his hands. He jumped over icy patches on the sidewalks, and didn’t slow (no matter how much of a fool he ended up looking like) until he had found his way downtown, and located the tall stone building he was looking for.

He burst in and all but leapt up to the front desk where the secretary was staring at him, face probably red from the cold and the exertion, panting like an idiot. But to her credit, she didn’t say anything, and let him catch his breath and speak on his own.

“I need to talk with the chief of police,” he said without any pretense.

“She’s not in today,” the secretary said. “Would you like to see the Detective standing in?”

He nodded, despite the sinking sensation in his chest. The tiny woman lead him through the police station, then pulled up to an office closed off from the others. Inside was a broad, stern-looking man writing up paperwork at the desk. For a few moments after being let in, Marius just stood at the door, taking the man in front of him in. Then finally, he snapped out of trance and ran up to approach him.

“I need to talk to the Chief of Police.”

“I’m sure Ms. Jenkins told you already that the Captain is out on maternity leave,” the Detective said, not looking up from the papers he was writing. “Whatever your issue, you can speak to me.”

“It’s urgent,” Marius tried again, not wanting to talk to anyone less than the highest ranking official in the town.

“Then speak quickly,” the man in front of him said, enunciating his words sharply and precisely.

Marius sighed and acquiesced, realizing that this was the best he was going to do. Even though he was just speaking to a detective, he still felt reassured. The man in front of him certainly had a presence that inspired fear and respect, and he hadn’t even looked up to meet his gaze yet.

“There’s a man from the French mob in town trying to sell drugs to students,” he blurted out, unsure of a better way to put it.

At that, the detective in front of him looked up from the paperwork to meet his gaze.

“I am a very busy man. If I find out that this is some college joke…”

“It’s not a joke!” Marius cut him off, voice raising a decibel or two at the accusation. “His name is Claquesous, but he’s going by Cabuc on campus, and he’s part of the Patron-Minette and trying to set up a place to sell in town as a stop-over on some drug route.”

At this, the man gestured for him to take a seat at the desk in front of him. And after a moment, Marius did as he was told.

“Tell me everything you know.”

And Marius did. After a moment’s consideration, he decided to leave Éponine and her connection to the Patron-Minette out of the story. The point of the hibernation was to keep her safe from the eyes of the police and the mob, so her story wasn’t important. Instead he talked about Claquesous going into the freshman dorms and pedaling mescaline, cocaine, heroin, and something called molly. The detective recognized the name of the drug, even if Marius himself didn’t. Then he finished with Claquesous going up to Cosette and approaching her about selling for him.

By the time he was finished, the man in front of him had his hands clasped into a fist and his elbows resting on the desk in front of him, listening attentively to his story. The detective’s eyes narrowed at what he heard, and finally he sat up and nodded.

“If what you’re saying is true, then you are right in guessing that this Claquesous doesn’t have a contact in town yet. Unfortunately, it’s also unlikely that he brought with him a substantial enough quantity of drugs to arrest him for drug trafficking.”

“What do you mean?” Marius demanded, flabbergasted that after everything he’s revealed, the police’s hands were still tied. “You have my word. I’ll testify!”

He remembered Éponine saying that the Patron-Minette had law enforcement on their payroll, and for a moment, he was afraid that he’d just tipped his hand to a mob informant.

“One boy’s word against a man from word of mouth gossip isn’t probable cause,” the man in front of him said harshly, shutting Marius up. “At the moment, the most I’ll likely be able to catch him on would be a possession charge, but then he could escape with little more than a fine.”

Marius sighed, both in relief and disappointment. On the one hand, this man was on his side and wanted to help. On the other hand, a possession charge wasn’t nearly enough. They needed to lock Claquesous away for a long time, enough to send a message to the Patron-Minette that their town was off limits.

“That’s not even a slap on the wrist for these guys,” he whined, trying to say anything to get the detective to do more, even though he knew that wasn’t how it worked. The detective also picked up on his childish behavior and leveled him with a displeased stare.

“I’m aware of that, boy. I’ll investigate and see if there’s anything more. But unless we find more tangible proof of your claims, there’s not much else I can do.”

The clipped words held finality to them, and Marius gave up trying to push the older man farther. He would try to help them, but it didn’t look like they would be getting much help at all. He couldn’t help but feel like he was right back where he’d started: in over his head and worried sick.

When Enjolras returned (assuming their leader hadn’t done something stupid and gotten himself captured) he would have a plan of attack or more information to work with.

“If I find more evidence, what should I do?” he asked the man in front of him, determined not to lose this ally.

The detective stared at him for several seconds, seeming to appraise him. Marius tried not to squirm under the judgment, and locked his knees straight, holding his gaze. Finally, the older man must’ve found what he’d been looking for, because he gave him a slight nod.

“If you find anything, bring it straight here,” he said finally. “Ask for Inspector Javert.”


	4. Center Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of an odd wait, but it was a bit of an odd week. So sorry. Hope you enjoy!

Enjolras trudged up the steps to Grantaire’s apartment, weary from the train ride but otherwise happy. His father hadn’t been home, so he had no idea that the ledger was gone, which meant that there would be no warning if he needed to use it. His clothes from yesterday felt heavy on his skin, and he couldn’t wait to get into the apartment and change into literally anything else. When he got to Grantaire’s door in the run-down tenement, he felt around the doorframe for the crack that held the spare key. Bossuet had texted him earlier that morning, to say that he’d rehidden the key in its usual place, so he could let himself in when he arrived. Upon prying it out, he opened the door.

Enjolras had been so wrung out from the travelling, and from everything he’d learned at his parents’ apartment that he hadn’t given any thought as to what things would look like when he returned. At first glance he saw Combeferre and Éponine sitting on the couch. Éponine seemed to be watching some show on her computer (judging by the clothes on the three women, it looked like it was from the 90’s), and Combeferre was trying to read Doctor Faustus for one of his classes. It was probably the closest Combeferre would come to taking an elective, as the class was called _Sympathy for the Devil: The Role of Evil in Philosophy and Religion_. Apparently, it was a multi-discipline class, because his roommate hadn’t stopped recommending it to him.

Upon his entrance, Combeferre and Éponine turned around to stare at him, in what he thought was incredulity, and even disapproval. Then the door opened even wider, and his eyes caught sight of Grantaire.

The cynic looked like a wreck; he was in the same exact clothes from yesterday, only more wrinkled than before. His generally untamed curly hair had reached a new level of uncontrollable, possibly from an odd angle of sleep, but it could also be from him pulling at it. Grantaire’s eyes were red and bloodshot, and the moment they landed on Enjolras, they went wide and disbelieving.

Enjolras couldn’t help the involuntary step backwards he took at the sight. For a few seconds, no one said anything, and then the blue-eyed man seemed to explode in a fit of emotion. Whatever Grantaire had been holding back out of bravery, or anticipation, or nerves, it all came out upon seeing him.

“You said you’d be right back!” Grantaire screamed through thick ugly tears and heaving gasps for air. He took a few steps towards Enjolras, but then backed off and started pacing across the tiny living room.

Enjolras started to get the sinking feeling that he’d horribly miscalculated something important.

“R…” he started, but never got to finish.

“You left, and nobody knew where you’d gone! And then Ep drugged me, and after I woke up, you were still missing and in _Manhattan_! Why would you… Enjolras, _they’re_ in Manhattan! I thought you’d…”

Enjolras stared perplexed as Grantaire worked himself up from upset to hysterical over the course of his fumbling words. Sentences were abandoned halfway through as the content became too much. The cynic was frantically pacing each way, fingers grabbing violently at his hair trying to regain some semblance of control. But it was useless, his expressive blue eyes were wider and more bloodshot than Enjolras had even seen him. Every harsh movement from Grantaire just served to make him look more and more like a caged animal, panicked and looking for a way out. 

Enjolras hadn’t thought that his absence would be anything more than noticed. He had assigned everyone a job to gather information, and he had done the same. If his job took a bit longer than most of the others, or if he was gone for one night, it hardly seemed like a big deal. And yet, the Grantaire that Enjolras knew was all but gone, replaced by a man frayed around the edges.

Enjolras was watching his friend unravel.

“ _Keep him still and give him something to focus on_ ,” Éponine had said when he asked about his panic attacks. But Enjolras hadn’t completely believed her at the time. Grantaire had always been easy-going and sarcastic. The nervous, twittering mess that she’d described had been so unfamiliar, that he could barely make sense of it. Of course, he was aware of the older man’s tendency to hide, but Enjolras had never sat with him in his cynic’s bunker while he hid.

Without giving any thought to the unfamiliar warmth that spread in his chest, Enjolras approached him in a single step and grabbed a hold of Grantaire’s shoulder, stilling him and forcing him to look up to meet his eyes. They were enormous, shining their impossible blue, and looked as if he had been flayed to complete vulnerability. A long moment of silence passed as comprehension seemed to dawn on the shorter man that Enjolras was truly there, and still holding onto his shoulder, anchoring him back to reality. Then before he could comprehend it the panicking cynic was wrapped around him.

Hugs weren’t completely unfamiliar to Enjolras, but they were rare and calm. This was a frantic clutching at skin and clothes, and he had no experience with it. It took a second for the student leader’s mind to catch up, but to his surprise, the instant he did Enjolras was hugging back just as ferociously. He could feel his friend trembling underneath him, and could only barely catch Grantaire mumbling into his collarbone.

At first, a single _don’t leave_ slipped out in a whimper that could easily be lost amongst the sniffling and choked sobs. Enjolras couldn’t be sure he heard it at first until some sort of desperate floodgate swung open and Grantaire was begging words like _please_ and _Enjolras_ into his chest through tears and shuddering breaths.

The whimpered words in his collarbone and corkscrew curls on his neck went straight to Enjolras’ head, making him feel light and dizzy. He hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t seen his friend in almost two months, or how much he missed him. There had been hunches to chase after, and friends to organize. But with Grantaire so close – the closest proximity Enjolras had ever had with the man – everything came rushing back to him. The dull ache of discovering that he missed the drunk, the confusion over what those new feelings meant for him, the indecision at what to do once he learned about his friend’s past. Enjolras still couldn’t comprehend his own feelings and decided not to try for the moment, just clutching on tighter and relishing the sensation of his friend finally _here_ again.

“It’s alright,” Enjolras finally said, voice surprisingly thick with emotion. He punctuated the words of comfort by resting a hand on the back of Grantaire’s head, trying to find any way to ground him further.

Although they were far from out of the woods, his mind spun on repeat, just gripping the sensory awareness of Grantaire. His own tired mind had short-circuited, and just kept repeating _safe, safe, safe_ until his knees wanted to give out. Lost in that moment, Enjolras couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to reassure himself as well.

It was Éponine who eventually broke through the silence.

“So, did you find what you were looking for in New York?” she asked, trying not to seem too anxious.

Enjolras slowly broke away from the hug, embarrassed by the show of emotions he’d just put on for the room. It was maudlin and unprofessional to say the least, and his skin crawled at knowing that Éponine and Combeferre had witnessed it. Of course, he trusted both of them, but now they had seen a moment of weakness in his character.

In politics, showing the slightest chink in his armor could be used to his downfall. And in the wake of the most over-dramatic indulgence he’d ever allowed himself, his limbs were stiff and uncomfortable. His entire body was frozen. Next to him, he half expected Grantaire to show similar signs of embarrassment, but he was just looking at him expectantly as well.

“Yes, I did,” he said finally, straightening up. These were his friends, he reminded himself with reproach. There was nothing to fear from Combeferre and Éponine, he trusted them. And yet, he still tensed uncomfortably, grateful that the focus was on strategy. “I had reasons to believe my Father has had dealings with the Patron-Minette, so I went home to check.”

“You what?”

“My father, like almost every successful businessman keeps a ledger,” he explained. “It’s an account of all his dealings, both legal and illegal. My parents are on a company event out of the country, so I was able to go the apartment and find it without them noticing. It could take down several key members of the mob, and function as a strong bargaining chip.”

Enjolras had expected to see more enthusiasm and relief at the news, but staring at his friends, all he could see was shock and silence. As usual, Combeferre was the first to recover, morphing his expression into its usual thoughtful glance. But before his roommate had a chance to even say a word Grantaire’s mouth fell open, and he started screaming at Enjolras.

“Are you crazy? Have you actually lost it?” Grantaire demanded incredulously, waving his arms frantically. “Ep goes in to bargain with that ledger, she’d never leave their memory or their sight again.”

Enjolras stared into those blue eyes for a second, stunned. Did Grantaire really think that he would send Éponine gift wrapped to them like that? That he had the capacity for such carelessness? Of course, he wasn’t particularly close to her, and often organized the Amis like troops, but he would never send one of them off to do something that he wasn’t prepared to do as well.

“She wouldn’t be the one bargaining with them,” he clarified, forcing the mild hurt out of his voice. “I would. And the information I have would protect me.”

“Enj…” Combeferre started.

He never finished.

“No! Enjolras, you can’t!” Grantaire shouted, actually looking like he could start crying again. “If the ledger is your father’s it won’t take them long to figure that out. They’ll find out who you are and do anything to tip the balance of power. Your family!”

“So?” he asked with a shrug.

Enjolras got involved with public speaking regularly, so he was used to people staring at him. He’d even made his fair share of insensitive remarks, particularly to Marius, and was also accustomed to his friends giving him disapproving looks. But the stares that he got after that one word was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Éponine and Grantaire were staring at him with matching expressions of bafflement, and even Combeferre was wincing at the flippant response.

Being unable to consult his best friend about his apparent misstep, Enjolras had to keep himself from squirming where he stood. A quiet wrongness crept over him at the reminder that he simply didn’t work the same way they did.

“So?” Grantaire responded in bewilderment. “Enjolras, your family!”

“I don’t know what your understanding of family is, but mine was a business plan,” he explained with a deep-set frown on his face. “I was born and raised to be trained as a CEO. Sentiment holds no place in business, and therefore held no place in our house. They would be attacking me by trying to take away something I possess, not something I value.”

It had just been meant as a clarification for why that threat strategy wouldn’t work on him, but as the room fell silent again, Enjolras couldn’t help but wonder if something more had transpired without him knowing. The ever-constant panic in Grantaire’s face melted away for a second as the older man stared at him with wide eyes. It wasn’t pity; Enjolras at least knew that. His friend’s expressive face was open and sorrowful, and he couldn’t figure out why. Then Grantaire shook his head and broke eye contact. The moment ended, and it left Enjolras feeling cold somehow.

Grantaire shook his head, and rubbed his face. It looked like his shoulders were trembling.

“Look Enjolras, you just can’t,” he said urgently. “Trust me, you threaten them and they will find a way to eliminate the threat.

“Do you know a Gueulemer?” Éponine interjected, looking at him evenly. “He’s like freaking hulk and he’s a hitman. Maybe the one assigned to you. Or they might send Babet. He’s a jack of all trades, and has a proclivity to pull teeth before cutting your throat.”

“You’re trying to scare me off,” he replied calmly. “It won’t work. We have an upper hand now.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Éponine gritted out with a level of frustration that he would’ve been more concerned about if he’d had the time. “This isn’t _your_ fight.”

“Enjolras, don’t rush into this,” Combeferre scoldingly interrupted, resting a hand on Éponine’s shoulder. Enjolras turned to look at his roommate with a hint of surprise. “You wanted information on Claquesous; let’s devise a strategy.”

Leave it to Combeferre to always think rationally through any situation, even one as foreign as this.

“Very well,” Enjolras conceded, moving back into planning mode. “What do we know?”

“They’re likely trying to expand their markets on route by hitting up towns on train stops,” Comberre explained. “Courf says that Claquesous was trying to sell some Class A drugs to freshmen, and Feuilly doesn’t think that they have any in-town contacts or plants.”

“All the more reason to drive them out quickly,” he nodded.

Strategizing with Combeferre felt comfortable. There was no emotional struggle and possibility for manipulation in it. They were intellectual equals moving towards a common goal. But then Grantaire jumped in, looking frazzled and distressed, and everything changed. There was no rationality in it, just earnest pleading. Enjolras hated it.

 _“Your emotions make you weak, boy.”_ He could hear the advice rattling in his head. “ _Let anyone see your weaknesses, and they’ll be sure to use them against you._ ”

He needed to protect his friends, but how could he when Grantaire was looking at him like he was breaking his heart?

“Enjolras please, just let them do what they came here to do.” Grantaire begged, grabbing onto his shirt sleeve. “They’ll leave some middle man who’s never seen ‘Ponine, and we can get on with our lives.”

Enjolras pulled away from Grantaire’s grip and staggered back a few steps. How could he say that? How could he not care? Enjolras looked at the others for help. Combeferre’s lips were pressed together in a thin line to show his disapproval, but Éponine was nodding along.

“There are drugs on every college campus Enjolras,” Éponine agreed. “I’m pretty sure Courf and Bossuet have both tried molly before, and haven’t Bahorel and Marius done mesc once too? Just let the stupid college kids who want to do drugs, do drugs. They’re going to get it somewhere. Why does it matter how they got here?”

Enjolras shook his head, stunned and horrified. This was his school and his town; they had no right impeding on what was _his_. It might be one thing if they were simply offering it and letting the students find them on their own. Enjolras would resent it, but had to allow his peers their own choices. This was pushing though; Claquesous was entering the freshmen dorms and pushing them into trying it, knowing full well how addictive many of those substances were. Didn’t Grantaire and Éponine see how wrong this was?

“I can’t just stand by and watch this happen,” he said angrily.

“So instead you’re just going to show your hand and hope they back off?” Grantaire asked, still way too distressed to be reasonable. He had no place being in this argument when his feelings were sloshing all over the floor, and making Enjolras want to calm him down like that.

“What would you have me do?” Enjolras shot back angrily.

Grantaire had to know by now that he wasn’t the type to stand back while terrible things happened. It didn’t matter if it was the French mob, they had entered his sight and threatened his friends. It wasn’t in his nature to rest before the wrong had been fixed. If Grantaire couldn’t understand that…

“You’re going into politics; maybe one day you’ll have enough public attention to be untouchable,” Grantaire said miserably, unabashedly pleading now. “Fight the big picture when it’s impossible for them to just kill you in an alley. Maybe one day you can take the entire ring down, and even get away with it.”

Enjolras’ posture stiffened at the idea of biding his time and letting the Patron-Minette ruin lives while he was too busy covering his own ass. His little life didn’t matter. Not if he could make a difference to this city, and to his friends.

“But no,” Grantaire choked out sarcastically, clearly seeing the change in his posture. “They’re doing wrong now so damn the consequences because you just have to try!”

That did it. Everything collapsed after those words. Every doubt that Enjolras had in Grantaire’s ability to understand him fell away. Because the blue-eyed man in front of him had stopped trying to fight him, stopped trying to convince him to let it go. The cynic hung his head, and those eyes were hidden behind his black curls.

And yet, he didn’t feel particularly victorious. Grantaire had lost his argument simply by acknowledging that Enjolras could never just leave it be, and yet the expression the cyinc wore made him look like he’d just kicked a puppy. It was too much; Enjolras never wanted to see that terrified, defeated expression on his friend’s face again.

_“Let anyone see your weaknesses, and they’ll be sure to use them against you.”_

Grantaire couldn’t be doing it on purpose, because _Enjolras_ didn’t even know what the man was doing, or why. Why was he so afraid? Éponine would be safe. He would avoid her if he had to. Even if he was watched for months or years afterwards, he could figure something out. He could keep them safe.

Unless… Grantaire was scared for _him_.

“Very well, I’ll wait,” he said, surprising himself with the words. “I’ll need a day or two to assess our resources and organize a strategy anyway.”

_“Your emotions make you weak, boy.”_

Enjolras felt weak. He felt pliant, and vulnerable, and weak. Grantaire’s too-blue eyes had haunted his dreams since he was nine years old. As a little boy Enjolras had imagined those eyes had been asking for help. Now they haunted his waking as well; now Grantaire was begging him, not for himself, but for Enjolras. It was foreign, and petrifying, and impossible how much this man affected him.

“Promise?” Grantaire asked disbelievingly, staring at him like he was something resplendent. Like Enjolras had just given him the world by promising that he wouldn’t risk himself.

He couldn’t put name to the emotions on Grantaire’s face, but in that moment, he desperately wished he could. Because no one had ever looked at Enjolras like that before, of that he was sure.

_“Your emotions make you weak, boy.”_

That expression, it made him ache.

“I still may use the ledger, but I won’t make any rash decisions before we can have a group meeting.”

That would have to be an acceptable compromise, because Enjolras refused to give any more than that. But of course, Grantaire would continue to surprise him with the depth of his understanding. Because he didn’t show any signs of disappointment or annoyance; the cynic just looked relieved and grateful that Enjolras had promised to wait. The worry was still there, but secondary now. Instead, the shorter man turned to Éponine and pulled her into a side hug.

“You aren’t allowed to drug me tonight,” Grantaire said, jokingly scolding her. But even with the light-hearted tone, Enjolras could hear how much he meant it. In response, Éponine playfully flicked him in the nose.

He could still see the fear in both their expressions.

Unable to watch anymore Enjolras turned away from the cynic and looked to Combeferre. Though, in hindsight, that was a bad idea; his roommate met him with a thoughtful, questioning expression that made him want to grimace. But he refused to let the inner turmoil play itself out so effusively on his face. Instead, the muscles in his arms constricted and his knees locked. His face was tightly frozen in a neutral expression. Enjolras knew what his roommate was asking and he absolutely did not want to think about it. Didn’t want to consider it.

_“Your emotions make you weak, boy.”_

Enjolras had never felt weaker.


	5. Believe Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I just can't get into a regular posting schedule with this one! Stuff has been crazy (as stuff tends to be) but I'm trying to be better! I hope you haven't all left me!

Grantaire had no clue how he was supposed to feel. He’d spent the last six weeks avoiding all of these people, and suddenly they were back in his life. Everything had changed within the course of a day, and they were all back, and they were in his apartment, and they knew.

Earlier, after convincing Enjolras not to use the ledger until the entire group talked about it (the plan was to do that tomorrow morning over breakfast) the blond had gone to take a shower to get the travel heaviness off of him. Enjolras had used his shower, and the thought still made him light-headed.

Seeing him walk out of the bathroom with just a towel on his waist, running his fingers through his messy blond hair hadn’t helped things either. Grantaire had been bright red by the time Enjolras had approached him asking where his bag of clothes was. Grantaire had lent him a pair of sweatpants and his Kermit the Frog shirt, and seeing his Apollo wearing his clothes was far too distracting to be allowed.

Then there had been the ten minute search for that godforsaken bag. They found it in the oven, and Éponine swore up and down that she completely forgot that she’d put it there to save space. Of course, the evil grin she gave him (since Grantaire had basically been an incomprehensible mess by that point) said otherwise.

Éponine had set the tone for the entire mess, and that tone was _we do not talk about how much this could all go to shit._ She didn’t want any heartfelt talks about her feelings, or reassuring hugs to give her strength. She wanted everyone to treat this like another one of Enjolras’ more intrusive protests (because Grantaire had lost count of the times when Enjolras had tried to force some authority to do the right thing with the power of protest signs) and treat it strategically. And everyone had basically listened. But Grantaire had still assumed everyone would start asking him questions about why he disappeared and what had happened.

But it never came. Combeferre and Courfeyrac ordered in three pizzas; one with bacon, salami, pepperoni, and ham for him and Bahorel, one vegetarian mediterranean for Enjolras and Jehan, and one everything for the rest of them. Everyone set up to do homework together, joked around, and tried to forget about the little drug war they were waging outside. At one point Combeferre challenged Bahorel to a sparring contest and everyone started cheering him on when they thought he might even win. Then obviously, Éponine had sprung up from the couch and challenged Combeferre.

“Be careful dude,” Bahorel had warned him when the philosophy major agreed. “This bitch uses her nails!”

Of course, everyone really started cheering then, because no one knew who would win that fight. In the end, Éponine came out on top, but just barely. She had played dirty, biting and scratching like nobody’s business. Combeferre had to tap out twice, but eventually she got the message and helped him to his feet.

No one commented when Éponine stared the rest of them down with wild eyes and a smile that was supposed to be playfully challenging (but just looked scary) and said, “Who wants to go next? I bet I can take you all!”

It was the first time any of them had ever seen Bahorel back away from a fight, because he could see it too. This wasn’t fun and games for Éponine; this was her response to a threat. She was trying to prove to all of them, and to herself that she wasn’t someone to be messed with.

She only tried to prove that she was tough when she felt completely helpless.

After that, things eased down. Grantaire had been sure at that point the evening would descend into pitying looks and awkward pauses, but once again the Amis had surprised him. The ruckus shifted into pleasant conversation. Combeferre, Feuilly, and Enjolras debated over something from class, because on top of Feuilly’s fulltime job, he somehow had time to audit some classes. Marius, Courfeyrac, Éponine, Jehan, and Joly all talked about some bad writer ruining some British TV show they all loved. And Grantaire was just content to listen to the bitching with a sad smile on his face.

Halfway through the evening, before everyone started to get ready for bed, Bossuet finished the knitting that he started during hibernation. It was a forest green slouch hat, and it was really well-made. So no one was more shocked than Grantaire when Bossuet gave it to him with a wide grin.

“Are you sure, man?” he’d asked, unsure of how to respond to it.

“There’re only so many times I could listen to Joly saying, _Bossuet, Grantaire doesn’t have a hat. Bossuet, what is he doing without a hat in December?_ _Bossuet, Grantaire’s going to catch pneumonia._ Something had to be done.”

Grantaire laughed at the bald man’s impression of Joly, but internally he didn’t know what to say. Through the jokes, Bossuet had wanted to make him something that cost time and energy, and it was thoroughly awesome. When he pulled the hat down over his ears and let Jehan play with it until it sat properly on his head he couldn’t help the blush that overcame him.

“So attractive,” Courfeyrac had joked once he’d put it on, and sloppily kissed him on the cheek. Grantaire shoved him away, but couldn’t help but grin sheepishly.

Needless to say, the hat stayed on his head for the rest of the night.

And the rest of the night was pleasant, surprisingly pleasant with everything going on. It felt far too right for Grantaire to even begin to handle it. Everything inside him was screaming, saying that this was where he belonged. That it only fit to listen to Jehan’s poetry, and Bossuet and Courfeyrac joking with one another, and Enjolras’ many causes. They even knew some of his and Ep’s past and didn’t judge them for it. When he told them he was gay, they baked him a friggin’ cake, for fuck’s sake!

For a moment, he wondered why he had ever wanted to hide from these people. But then, of course he would think that now, when he might actually need to leave them to escape.

That had yet to be determined, and Grantaire just wanted to stay in this evening for the rest of his life.

But the night had needed to wind down at some point. Everyone knew there’d be an important discussion in the morning, and it could be one of those life-changing decisions. They’d just wanted one normal last night, so when everyone started laying out sleeping bags and getting ready for bed Grantaire couldn’t help the flood of anxiety that overtook him. They didn’t know they’d be taking a vote on Enjolras’ life tomorrow.

Oh fuck. Just thinking about it, _Enjolras’ life_ just made him nauseous. Long after everyone had gone to bed, he tossed and turned.

No one was going to get hurt because of him. Of that he was sure, because Grantaire wouldn’t let them. When he’d first run up those stairs a few days ago, his mind had been entirely on protecting Éponine and getting her to safety. But the Amis had forced their way in and started helping, and he’d been trying to keep all of their whereabouts straight. Jehan and Courfeyrac mingling amongst the freshmen was mostly safe, since they could just pretend to be students interested in the drugs. Marius, Combeferre, and Bossuet were just doing research, so they could safely cover their tracks as well. It was Bahorel, Feuilly, and Joly he was worried about. Snooping around town was dangerous, and he couldn’t keep eyes on them from his apartment.

And now there was Enjolras, taking off on a moment’s notice and trying to fling himself into peril.

Nausea bubbled up in his throat, and Grantaire had to press his forehead against the scratchy rug on the floor next to the bed to steady himself.

He didn’t understand how the blond could risk his life without a second thought. Didn’t understand why he would. Even if they could manage to drive the Patron-Minette out of the town, what did he think it would accomplish? There’d be other colleges in other towns. It would be a small victory, and no doubt it wouldn’t last long.

Too much was bothering him about the argument they’d had earlier. At the time he’d been too stunned by Enjolras’ flippant description of his family life to really think. But now, dozens of unanswered questions flitted through his mind. How did he know to look for the ledger? How did he know about his father’s dealings with the French mob? And was Enjolras genuinely doing all this just because he spotted something wrong and couldn’t let it go?

Every time Grantaire closed his eyes, he imagined seeing Enjolras lying in an alleyway, in a puddle of his own blood. His blond hair would create a halo effect, and that stupid red hoodie he loves so much would be splayed out underneath him. If Éponine hadn’t been asleep in her bed two feet away, Grantaire would’ve cried out at the image.

He couldn’t still his mind, and he couldn’t still his body. Without thinking about it, Grantaire crept out of bed and made his way through the tangle of bodies down the hall and into the living room. Slowly, he came to the red sleeping bag (seriously, if the color red didn’t look so damn good on him, Grantaire would be setting up an intervention over it) perpendicular to their couch. The student leader’s head was completely covered by the top of the sleeping bag, so he just looked like a big red lump.

“Enjolras,” he whispered quietly, lightly poking the lump where the student’s stomach would be with his toe. “Are you awake?”

The top flap of the sleeping bag swung down, revealing nothing but the blond’s head. It would almost be comical if he wasn’t so tense. Some comedic variation of _Mr. Bond, we’ve been expecting you._

“Yeah,” he replied, and climbed out of the sleeping bag without another indication.

They glanced around them for a moment before silently agreeing on going to the kitchenette. Luckily, none of the idiots had decided to snag some extra floor space by sleeping in the kitchen, because it was quite literally the only other Amis-free spot in the apartment (save the bathroom, but that would just be too weird.)

“What’s the deal with the ledger?” he asked, figuring he’d skip to the chase.

“What?”

“You basically took a long shot twenty miles wide and got the apple by its stem,” he said somewhat frustrated. This had bugged him since Enjolras had first mentioned the ledger. It was too convenient, too simple; and things were never that simple.

“Strangely enough, that didn’t clarify anything for me,” Enjolras said with a tiny quirk of a smile.

“How did you know your father’s ledger would have incriminating evidence against the Patron-Minette? And how did you even know about it?”

It was dark and he couldn’t be sure, but Grantaire thought he saw Enjolras pause, maybe even tense up slightly, before nodding and answering.

“My father raised me to be a businessman, of course he’d advise me to keep a ledger of all my business transactions. Finding his was simple. I just devised what I knew about his unique brand of paranoia.”

“And how did you know you’d find exactly what you were looking for?” He repeated, vaguely surprised that Enjolras had ignored one of the questions he’d asked. “I mean, fuck. It’s practically Fairy Godmother levels of perfect. The exact evidence we’d need in our laps.”

If he hadn’t been sure before that something was off with Enjolras, now he was certain. When he’d first met Enjolras he’d compared the man to a marble statue, cold and unmoving. But since then, he’d been proven wrong time and time again. And after the comment about his family earlier today, Grantaire thinks he’s finally starting to figure Enjolras out. While the politics major wasn’t exactly effusive in his emotions, Grantaire had started to notice the tiny smiles, and relaxed postures for what they were. And he’d begun to notice the tension the blond carried in his muscles when he was uncomfortable.

At his question, Enjolras had practically frozen mid-scowl. The blond’s shoulders were nearly shaking with strain, and Grantaire almost told him to forget about it. That he didn’t need to know.

Only this time, he _did_ need to know. This time Éponine was at stake. He would do anything not to see the discomfort in the other man’s posture, but not by risking his best friend. So instead, he said nothing and waited for Enjolras to word his answer.

“I recognized Montparnasse and Claquesous’ names from somewhere, but couldn’t place them until you explained who they were. When it became clear that I wouldn’t know those names from campus, I pieced together that it must have been from my family.”

That wasn’t so bad, Grantaire thought. It could’ve been a lot worse, and it made sense with Enjolras’ father trying to teach him about business. He just couldn’t figure out why it caused so much stress in the student.

Either way, he had his information so he immediately set out trying to ease the tension in the air.

“Really? College and home were the only two places where you would know people?” he joked lightly.

“That and politics, but I doubt they had their names plastered across newspapers,” Enjolras said with a neutral shrug, before looking down. “I lived an extremely reserved life before college.”

“Well thank heaven that’s changed,” he joked, once again trying to lighten the mood.

Internally though, he filed away the expression into his memory banks. In the dim lighting, Enjolras’ furrowed brow and pursed lips made him look just the slightest bit sad. No matter how much Grantaire wanted to kiss the crinkles on his face until they were smooth again, the artist in him couldn’t deny that the dark lighting and the melancholy made him look beautiful.

“Believe it or not, it really has,” Enjolras said with a hint of a smile. Grantaire took it as a personal victory when he saw the student’s shoulders loosen and sag. Before he could feel any relief though, Enjolras broke eye contact and looked down for a moment, before stepping closer.

“Before all this, you were avoiding us. I would like to fix whatever’s broken between us, if we can.”

There it was. That’s what he’d been waiting for all night and the past few days. Someone had to ask about where he disappeared, and why. And of course it fucking had to be Enjolras. Enjolras who looked at him with those imploringly sincere eyes.

Grantaire felt like he was losing his grip on reality. The feeling of safety and acceptance was completely foreign, and he couldn’t comprehend it. The Amis had rushed to their aid immediately, and no one batted an eyelash in judgment at either of them when they heard Éponine’s story. It was overwhelming and incredible, and he couldn’t bear to lose it.

“Now?” Grantaire asked, meaning to sound jokingly incredulous.

“Well, I might be on the top of a mob’s hit list tomorrow. Why not?”

Oh fuck it, who was he kidding? Even if Grantaire found himself trusting (and even loving) the Amis there would always be a French mob to look out for. And even if the Patron-Minette left the picture again, there would always be people around. Grantaire could never trust people. They were careless and impulsive. Every action was a disguise and armor.

And those _people_ would be after Enjolras. What the student leader was thinking, what he was doing, Grantaire had no idea. But the thought made his mind swim and bile rise in his throat. Behind his eyelids, images taunted him. Enjolras in a ditch, Enjolras in pieces, Enjolras becoming just another file in missing persons.

That man was like the sun, and Grantaire didn’t know how he could possibly cope if that light went dark.

“Oh fuck, don’t say that,” he begged, staggering a few steps backward. “Enjolras, you can’t say that.”

His head was spinning, and he had friends all over his floor because they barricaded themselves in his apartment to protect him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t pace like he normally would because he’d trip over them. _Images of Enjolras, of all off them dying and dead._ Nowhere to go. _The cracks in the floorboards filling with blood. All of them dying for something so pointless._ Grantaire wanted to leap away and find somewhere, _anywhere_ less crowded. He needed to breathe. Oh fuck, he couldn’t breathe.

And Enjolras just cocked his head, a confused scowl on his face, and approached him once more.

“Why does this bother you so much?”

“Why does this…” Grantaire gaped at him, puzzling how he could genuinely not know. How the student couldn’t understand something so simple as fear. “Enjolras, I keep picturing you in a puddle of your own blood! And why? I don’t understand why…?”

“You’re my friends.” Enjolras said simply, as if that explained everything.

“It’s too much… You couldn’t … not for me. I’m just…”

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t form words. Enjolras was looking at him as if his three word answer was explanation enough, and like he was a complete moron for not grasping that. But it couldn’t possibly be, because friends _just didn’t_ _do that_. It was too much. Not for his sake.

Grantaire felt like he was dragged back to that day on the quad, with hundreds upon of people surrounding him in those t-shirts. Enjolras had done so much for him then; he had changed the human race for an afternoon. For a few hours, the world had become a better place, and it had been for _him_.

And yet, Enjolras quite possibly looked more resplendent now than ever before. This went so far beyond Apollo. He was bordering on Prometheus levels of stupidly heroic; risking the rage of Zeus to bring him and Éponine light.

And it was far too much. That light was starting to burn his skin, and Grantaire wanted to scratch until it came off. Instead, he stumbled away. A toad could only stand in the sun too long before returning to the mud, no matter how much it wanted to watch the bird fly.

“Grantaire, please,” Enjolras said. He stepped closer to Grantaire again, oblivious to how much it hurt him to be near the student leader. “You are my friend. Tell me what I did wrong. Let me see you.”

“You don’t want that,” he said, voice was low and even so as not to communicate how much he was trembling.

Enjolras’ hand circled around his right wrist, and pulled him closer. Grantaire cursed the flinch in his response, though he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the sensation of the blond’s touch. His hands were soft and smooth, but his grip was firm and every time that man touched him, Grantaire felt himself both flying out of control and completely grounded.

“Do you trust me?”

On instinct, Grantaire spun around to look Enjolras in the eyes.

“Of course,” he said without a beat.

A moment after he said it, he regretted it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it _was_. It was too true, and whatever Enjolras asked, it was far too likely that he would give it to him.

“Then help me understand.”

“I’m afraid to say anything!”

For a moment, everything went silent as Grantaire marveled in the enormity of what he’d just admitted. This was it, he thought. This was where it was all going to end. He was going to know. Enjolras dipped his head to the side and took a step towards him, as if trying to comfort him. But he didn’t want comfort.

“No don’t,” he cried and backed away, ripping his wrist away.

If this was going to be done, he couldn’t stand to have the student anywhere near him. It would just further emphasize the chasm that would lay between them any second. The look of disappointment and disgust.

“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. I’ve somehow managed to fool you into thinking I’m worth your little group. That I’m smart enough to be one of you. Somehow I’ve managed to let you believe in me.” He choked on the words but continued anyway, unable to stop. “But you shouldn’t. I’m stupid and cynical. I’m a drunk and a coward. My shirt said alcoholic, but you must have fucking known that it was a goddamn cop-out. I should’ve said failure, or disappointment, or _traitor_. Or _dropout_.”

Fuck, he’d really said it. The last word slipped out in the midst of the rage and self-hatred, completely unbidden. Grantaire refused to look up at Enjolras’ face. This man who valued education above almost all things. That was a step farther than he’d planned to go, but once he’d started, he couldn’t keep the rest of it from spilling out.

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m a fucking dropout. I never finished high school; not like I’d have been able to graduate anyway, probably. I can’t even… fuck, I can’t even read really. Yeah, I know, right? You’ll see, all of you. One day you’ll see how stupid and worthless I am, and I can’t. I can’t disappoint you again. I can’t see you despise me again…”

Grantaire trailed off, and looked down at his hands in a sad realization before continuing. “But now it’s too late for that.”

It was a violent sort of cathartic. Every word that he said hurt him like a dagger, but he thirsted for it. He waited for the verbal blow that was sure to follow, and tried to imagine what the blond would say. After Christopher’s response, Grantaire had felt eerily hollow. For all the anger, betrayal, and blame that he’d expected to come from the worst thing he’d ever done, forgiveness had never been a possibility. He hadn’t known what to do with forgiveness, hadn’t known how to process it.

But he had lied to Enjolras about who he was to become part of their little group. He’d heard the stories about Enjolras and Combeferre’s struggles to get the club off the ground. They could’ve gotten any old ten signatures showing interest in the club, but Enjolras had only wanted true believers: people who would be willing to participate in several meetings a week, and help plan protests and events. Grantaire was far less than an active member of the club; he didn’t believe in their causes and wasn’t even a student. He had lied to them all, and now was as good of a time as ever to let it all come to light.

“Grantaire…” Enjolras started.

Suddenly, Grantaire’s eyes widened in realization. He’d been careless. Perhaps his infraction was too great. Perhaps his betrayal was too dire, and they abandoned them now. He could make do, but Claquesous was still on campus, and Éponine was in danger. Panic flooded his veins at what Enjolras could do on a command. Even if Grantaire didn’t deserve the Amis, Éponine did. 

“No, don’t!” he nearly screamed, terrified of the response. “I’ll leave the group and you’ll never have to see me again. Just please, don’t abandon Éponine. I won’t ask for anything else, but please please help her!”

Grantaire stayed frozen, and for once, forced himself not to move a muscle until he got his response. Internally, he cursed himself for risking Éponine’s safety so carelessly.

Then Enjolras stepped towards him and had a hand on the side of his neck, and a thumb was resting on his carotid artery, below his ear. And the gesture was so surprising, so gentle, that Grantaire could do nothing but look up to meet the student’s gaze.

He’d seen many expressions on Enjolras’ face in the several months he’s known him: righteous fury, frustration, annoyance, passionate belief, excitement, exhaustion, confusion, scorn, affection, and amusement to name a few. But the searching sadness on his face now was something raw and new. For an instant, he’d somehow ripped off the layers of defenses Enjolras built up and saw a glimpse into the blond’s heart.

Before Grantaire could hate himself for it, Enjolras opened his mouth and started speaking.

“Is that what you see? And do you think I would let the man you described anywhere near my friends?” he asked in sheer bafflement, like he couldn’t believe the image Grantaire gave of himself.

The words touched something inside him that he couldn’t claw at, couldn’t scratch away. As much as he wanted to rip away at his sunburned skin and hide away in the mud he thought he deserved, those words held so much honesty that Grantaire couldn’t help but listen. Enjolras was never open about his feelings or weaknesses.

Those words were like cool water, sincere and cleansing. Grantaire had laid himself bare before Enjolras in a way he promised himself he never would for another human being again. And those words were trying to wash away the mud.

“You are supporting yourself and Éponine on your own. And if you can’t read, then that is the school’s fault. They didn’t take the time to help make sure you learned the material, because they were too distracted by a national timetable, telling them where you should be. You didn’t fail anyone; they failed you.”

_Their_ fault? They failed _him_?

His stomach rolled, trying to reject the foreign concept. Like those shape puzzles for toddlers, it felt like he was trying to shove the circle into the trapezoid. Tears sprang to his eyes as he tried and failed to reconcile Enjolras’ words in his mind. Grantaire’s vision started to rock and dip, and he couldn’t know if the world or he was to blame for it. Probably him.

It wasn’t possible.

For an instant he thought he might drown like this. He might drown in those words and never reemerge from them. He couldn’t. He spluttered and tried to resurface with protests and confessions, but Enjolras cut him off and wouldn’t hear it.

“No, let me finish,” he said, and there was nothing Grantaire could do.  “I didn’t invite you to that class to test you. There’s no point, you’ve already passed. I invited you because when I argue with you I have to look at the topic, whatever the topic, from a whole new perspective than I thought possible. I enjoy watching you think. I enjoy listening to you argue. And you know how little I think of the other students in my Partisan Discourse class.”

He wasn’t drowning. Hell, Grantaire had no clue what he was, because he couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before. Looking into those clear blue eyes (the color of glass if that even made sense) he could feel the sincerity.

“You _perplex_ me,” Enjolras said, looking up with one of his tiny rare half-smiles; and it sounded too much like a confession.

He flushed at the words. No matter what dark aspect of his past Grantaire had laid at the student leader’s feet, Enjolras never viewed him as any less. For a moment, he thought could see himself through the blond’s eyes, and there wasn’t a speck of dirt on him.

Grantaire wasn’t drowning. In Christopher’s forgiveness, in the Amis support and love, in Enjolras’ sincere words, he was being cleansed.

“Can you believe me?” Enjolras asked, voice thick with an emotion Grantaire couldn’t attempt to name.

Weeks ago, he would’ve choked down his response, not daring to admit to the truth.

“Sometimes you’re all that I believe,” he replied honestly, choking on tears.

The crooked half-smile bloomed into a wide grin spread across Enjolras’ features and the blond leaned forward to press his forehead against Grantaire’s. His senses were overwhelmed by the student leader; every nerve ending fired in his body, humming with the contact. Even more so than before, Enjolras was truly beautiful. And yet, it wasn’t too much anymore. Against all odds, Grantaire felt at ease in his skin underneath Enjolras’ gaze.

He could see himself as Enjolras saw him. Clean. Free from the mud.

He could breathe.

“Someday soon when this is over, come to my class.” Enjolras said as a request, and not the instruction the words might suggest. “Believe me when I say, you’ll baffle them all.”

“Okay,” Grantaire breathed.

And he was so wrong before because _this_ was catharsis.

\-----

Feuilly lay silently in the extra sleeping bag that Combeferre loaned him, not daring to move a muscle. The only thought running through his head as he unintentionally eavesdropped on a _very_ private conversation between his friends was _holy shit, why me?_

And if he was being honest, a little bit of his mind was occupied debating whether or not this counted towards the pool everyone had joined during hibernation. After they’d passed the two month mark three weeks ago Éponine had been the only one in so everyone had gone double or nothing to keep the bet going. Despite the fact that Grantaire had been ignoring everyone at the time, no one seemed to think that this blowout wouldn’t happen.

Feuilly pondered for a moment as their leader guided Grantaire away from the kitchen, talking about how they needed their rest, before deciding that it didn’t count. Then, oh dear God; Enjolras was bringing Grantaire to his sleeping bag, and _tucking him in._

Feuilly had to resist the urge to sit up slightly to get a better view of the two. He knew he was outright spying now, but Enjolras was tucking Grantaire into his red sleeping bag and practically cuddling up next to him. Enjolras was on top of the down fabric and to the side of Grantaire, and it didn’t look like they were touching, but they were _right fucking there._ He groaned as he watched this, because the only thing keeping this from ending the betting pool was that neither of them had actually talked about their feelings yet.

Granted, at this rate, they’d be fucking before they even realized the other was interested in them.

He’d never been a very deep sleeper. Maybe it came from the orphan thing, and maybe it came from the homeless thing, but he never bothered to investigate the reasons why. To him, it didn’t matter why he woke up at the slightest noise. All that mattered was that he could get back to sleep just as easily and it didn’t throw off his work schedule.

That didn’t mean things weren’t going to be as awkward as fuck for him the next morning. Because they definitely were. He felt like he’d invaded something very intense, and even though there was no way he could’ve avoided hearing it, it still felt wrong.

Even so, a stray thought entered his mind that he couldn’t help entertaining for a few minutes before finally slipping back to sleep.  


	6. Free Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no words for the depths of my shame. I'd promised myself I'd never be one of THOSE writers who just stopped writing a series in the middle, but so much happened and I can't even begin to get into it. Let me just say that I've finished this story and have started writing the final multi-chapter piece to this series, and I'll try not to leave you again. And as to the reasons for my departure, let me say that I've never spent a year and change so very extraordinarily happy and in love. There are no words. 
> 
> But, I promise not to leave you again. If any of you are still reading this, here's the next chapter after over a year of waiting.

Éponine wasn’t _exactly_ what you would call a light sleeper. But on the other hand, the guy plodding through her apartment at 5:30 in the morning wasn’t exactly quiet either. She was woken up by a noise that sounded far too much like someone stubbing their toe, followed by a hissed expletive. It took her sleep addled brain about five seconds to piece together what was happening and remember that she had nine guys in her and Grantaire’s home. Odds are, one of them who didn’t know the layout of the apartment had just walked into a wall while trying to find the bathroom.

She turned to see if the incompetence had woken Grantaire up as well, but he was gone. Instantly awake, she sprang up and checked the foam mattress pad but he wasn’t there. Her mind drained of all thought for an instant as panic choked at her lungs. _He’s gone,_ her thoughts screamed at her. _He’s gone to fight Claquesous on his own._

The footsteps outside the bedroom weren’t stumbling towards the bathroom, but towards the front door. Grantaire was trying to sneak out, but that self-sacrificing asshole would be dead before he even stepped off the sidewalk.

It wasn’t his job to protect her from her monsters. Hell, it wasn’t any of their jobs. She despised Enjolras’ plan for its martyrdom the same way she hated the idea of all of her friends involving themselves in this. If anyone should face Claquesous and try to drive him out, it should be her.

She all but charged out of the room and towards the living room area. It was lucky that she was so good at navigating her way around and not stepping on sleeping Amis. Because her friend in the baggy hoodie was already at the front door, and ready to go get himself killed.

“Don’t even think about it,” she snarled angrily. If she had to be locked up in here while everyone else fought her battles for her (and she still wasn’t sure if she could abide by that, even) then he was going to be cooped up with her as well.

“Merde. Everyone was supposed to be asleep by now.”

All the anger drained out of her at the resigned voice, and she took a few steps forward (carefully avoiding the sprawling limbs) to confirm what she thought she heard.

“Marius?” she asked, face to face with that stupidly adorable ginger. “What the hell are you doing?”

Just to be sure, Éponine scanned the room around her and was relieved to see her roommate had wound up in the gigantic pile of bodies all curled up around each other. She was even more pleased to see him curled up into a ball inside a familiar red sleeping bag. His head was burrowed against a sleeping Enjolras’ abdomen. The politics major was less interactive in the position, lying on his side with an arm tucked under him. But he was facing Grantaire, and his knees and head were curled slightly inwards, like he wanted to curl up around her roommate as well. It was like the emotionally constipated version of cuddling.

Once she knew that her best friend was safe, she could focus on her stupid crush and his poorly executed escape plan. She took in his appearance. His weird hair (seriously, it looked like a tornado sitting on his head, and it was still cute) was even messier than usual, and his shoes were on the wrong feet. He wore a pair of jeans and a gigantic gray hoodie, and looked like a terrified child.

“Well, I have to do _something_ ,” Marius said dramatically, throwing his arms out to show his frustration. But with that hoodie, he just looked like a shady teletubby. “Cosette’s in danger, and you’re locked in here. And that’s not right because I promised that everything would be okay. So I have to fix it!”

“What do you mean Cosette’s in danger?” she asked, her nose wrinkling in confusion.

“Claquesous found her in the C-Store the other day, and knew that she was an off campus freshman. He was trying to get her to sell for him.”

With Marius’ innocent words, Éponine blanched. Cosette _was_ in danger, and Marius had no idea how bad this could be. She had started out making friends with the sweet blonde out of obligation to Marius and sheer proximity, but she couldn’t help but love the girl. Sometimes it seemed like Cosette was the epitome of innocent sweetness in this world, and somehow she managed to smooth Éponine’s jagged edges, just like the blonde did with everyone she met.

If Claquesous knew about her living situation and age, and sought her out then he had leverage over her. Cosette’s house was no longer safe, and her friend was a target. Éponine’s heart sunk in her chest as she slowly put the pieces together for just what role she was probably targeted to fill.

“Tell me everything,” she said, as she grabbed her keys and phone.

Marius started to fill her in on the whole ordeal while she dragged him back into her room. While he talked about every little detail (and dear lord, could that boy talk) she stepped into the closet and changed into a pair of jeans, a long sleeve black shirt, and a bra.

The moment Marius mentioned going to the police station, it took everything she had not to groan or gape at him in horror. She’d expressly told them that the Patron-Minette had law enforcement on their payroll, and Bahorel hadn’t been able to determine if that was true here. He could’ve easily walked into a trap. But as Marius continued her fear eased away, leaving nothing but loving exasperation.

“Oh God, you went to Javert? That guy’s probably the dumbest smart cop in the history of dumb smart cops.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a good cop, but a terrible judge of character. Which is kind of important for a detective,” she explained.

“Oh,” Marius said in response, and started practically pouting at the ground.

Marius was intelligent but not street smart in the way that she, Grantaire, and even a few of the Amis were. And he most likely knew it too. She could tell that the pre-law got frustrated whenever he felt like he was out of his depth, and tried to puff up his chest to make it look like he was as confident and knowledgeable as the rest of them. His utter lack of understanding was completely endearing, and Éponine had to resist the urge to giggle at him and ruffle his hair. Because he wasn’t _her_ doofus, and she didn’t have the right.

Finally, Éponine bent down to go into the box that held her pocket knife collection. After a moment of deliberation she clipped her longest folding knife (a pretty 4 ½ inch blade with an anodized aluminum handle and a push button lock; she named it Maria) into her belt and another into her boot.

She decided that it was best to give Marius something small and foolproof, so she handed him her stockman. It was little more than a pocket knife, so it was more for confidence than for use, but if he got in a bind, the stockman was better than nothing. It was dark, so she couldn’t tell, but Éponine thought she saw Marius turn green as he accepted the weapon.

Marius’ girlfriend however, could definitely handle more than a pocket knife. The girl was skilled with long and thin things, as evidenced by her skill at swiping pens, pencils, and even a conductor’s baton once. With that in mind, Éponine took another look at her knife collection before pocketing a dainty spring assisted stiletto for Cosette and standing up.

She let the information Marius had given her sink in, running through every word over again in her head. Whatever this group of college kids planned to do, they had to do it soon, because the urgency level in this crisis had just gone from uncomfortably pressing to scorchingly critical. And they couldn’t just wait Claquesous out anymore, because that would compromise Cosette. But as she processed Marius’ words, a thought occurred to her.

“This is great,” she said triumphantly, a grin taking over her face. “If we can get Javert to arrest Claquesous for attempting to sell Class A drugs to froshies, we might be able to fix this.”

“That would cripple the mob?”

“What?” she asked before understanding his meaning. “Oh. Hell no. Claquesous is like a freaking ghost; he’ll have escaped before the car gets from the arrest to the station. But he’s high enough on the food chain to be linked to the Patron-Minette. Police will be watching this town for mob activity like hawks, and it’ll send a message to ‘Parnasse. Say this town is too diligent to be a good investment.”

“That’s awesome; we should do that!” Marius pointed at her excitedly as she said it. “How?”

“You were headed to Cosette’s, right?” Éponine asked rhetorically, poking her head out of the closet. She figured the answer had to be obvious. He nodded his head anyway. “Take me with you.”

Clearly, the answer was _not_ obvious because the pre-law jumped back as if she’d just poked him with a cattle prod. He was completely adorable, but sometimes Éponine wondered how Marius managed to function. Why did he think he was watching her change into street clothes at the asscrack of dawn?

“What? No, ‘Ponine, it’s too dangerous,” he hissed frantically. “We’re doing this to protect you. I couldn’t stand it if you were caught because of me.”

It was one of those times when her heart melted. And it was also one of those times when her heart hardened and became stone. _Detach_ , Éponine reminded herself. It was that same caramel coated concern that kept her trapped in her apartment like witness protection. Their group had wrapped their arms around the both of them and held tight. They refused to let go, and it touched her. But it also kept her stuck in a room with a bunch of would-be saviors. And she told Grantaire the first time she’d met him that princesses locked in tower rooms didn’t like saviors.

“Look, I can’t just be passively handed around, babysat, and hidden away anymore,” she said, deciding to appeal to his gosh-golly, gee whiz sweetness with the honest-to-God truth. “I know everyone means well, but that’s what my Dad did to me. I need to get free from all of it.”

What made her human again was the ability to run away afterwards. Before that business trip, she had often taken Gavroche with her. That was how Éponine had always worked; she would save herself, go grab her brother, then go find sanctuary with Grantaire to rest up. The apartment was a tower room but the safe zone was closing in around her. She needed a new vantage point; a new base of operations from which to break free.

Marius just gaped at her for the longest time before finally shaking himself out of it and speaking again.

“God ‘Ponine, the things you do,” he said with an affectionate scoff and a roll of the eyes, before pulling off his hoodie and stuffing it over her head. “At least this’ll hide you a little bit.”

If it was gigantic on Marius, it was like a freaking teepee on her. A small village could probably have camped under there. But it smelled distinctly like Marius, very clean with a hint of fabric softener, and was much warmer than it looked. So Éponine just pulled up the hood and snuggled into it, before making her way out to the front door and slipping through. They made their way down the stairs quickly, and to her relief (though she’d never admit it) Marius fell into step next to her the moment they hit the street.

It was barely more than a mile walk to Cosette’s huge house from hers, but since they were trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves, it took them much longer than it should to get there. Éponine would’ve been content to spend the walk in silence, but Marius had a look on his face. It was that look where she could tell he was thinking about something and was just waiting for the last moment before it burst out. Some people might be able to get away with it, but Marius wasn’t one of those people.

“I know you said you didn’t want any Good Will Hunting moments…”

She winced, (oh, that was a _great_ start) and moved to quickly cut him off. “Unbelievable how things that I say can still be applicable two days later.”

He looked properly chastised, but of course, he wouldn’t take the hint.

“It’s just, you might be the calmest person out of all of us, and it’s your life on the line. I don’t get how you can do it.”

“Hakuna matata,” she said with a shrug.

“No, really.”

There was no avoiding it. If she dodged his question now, then she had no doubt that he’d ask it again two minutes later, with his big stupid innocent eyes staring down at her.

That was probably the biggest attractor to Marius. In every sense of the word, he was utterly removed from her past life. At the age of twenty, the ginger still puzzled over conflict and blushed at innuendoes. Some of his awkward gait and unique features just added to that well-intentioned naivety. Marius was a person largely untouched by the ugliness she’d known as a kid, and held a heaping ton more innocence on the side. When she was with him, it was like the past couldn’t get through, and Éponine was the person he saw her as.

But the truth was out now. Marius could see her much more clearly now, and she’d never be that feisty, level-headed freshman again. Éponine had made her choice on who she wanted to be to the Amis, and she was going to stand by that decision.

“Look, I was the equivalent of those little chocolates that hotels leave on the pillows. When my father gave me out as a benefit, I just became another object. Things were pushed on me, then afterwards I went to R’s and became a person again. Now that I’m here, it does no good to dwell on what happened to me as an object because I’ve got me as a person to look after.”

“That’s… ‘Ponine, I can’t even…”

“Don’t,” Éponine said sharply, cutting him off. She knew how fucked up it was. Like every other college student in the goddamn country she’d taken an intro psych class. She knew that it was just a dissociation technique so she didn’t get more fucked in the head. She just couldn’t bear to hear the awkward sympathy in his tone. She needed to look forward. “I don’t want pity. The life that actually belonged to me has been a decent one.”

The sharp tone in her voice must’ve harsher than she expected, because their walk grew silent after that. Marius clearly didn’t want to say anything else to upset her, but the awkward pre-law student was a bit obsessive at times. So if he had something on his mind, nothing else would occupy his thoughts for way too long. Éponine could practically hear the gears in Marius’ mind overheating, trying to fill in artificial memories in his mind to make the picture of her childhood come together in his mind. No matter what he imagined, it would probably be wrong and would just add to the pitying looks. Finally, if only to fill the silence she decided to give in and talk a little bit.

“You know, my Mom used to sing to me before bed.”

“Really?” Marius asked, perking up at the admission.

He really did look like a puppy. Cosette and her had gotten into a long conversation once about everyone in the group’s spirit animal. Some of them were hard to think of, and some they debated over for way too long. But for Marius, they just looked at each other for an instant before blurting out “ _beagle_ ” in tandem.

“Yeah,” she said with a sigh. Who knew, talking about it might actually be therapeutic and shit. “ _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray_.”

“She sounds like a good Mom.”

Éponine scoffed. “She wasn’t. She was the most two-faced person ever.”

“Oh,” Marius said, visibly deflating.

“As a kid, I just reasoned it away by saying that she must have a quota for how much love she could give, and how much cruelty she had to give,” she said, pointedly trying not to be affected by the Pontmercy pout. “By the time Dad had started using me for deals, most of the nice rations went to Azelma.”

Hadn’t she been trying to cheer Marius up about this whole thing? Éponine couldn’t quite remember why she chose _this_ topic if that was her goal. He looked like she’d just pressured him into stuffing a puppy in a circus cannon for fun.

“You don’t want sympathy,” he said, the pout strong now. “What _can_ I do?”

Alone on the dark streets, with Claquesous on the loose, she was tense as a drawn bow. And Marius was right there, offering her anything to make it better. Of course, he couldn’t make it better. But Éponine bit her bottom lip to keep herself from asking him to try.

She shrugged in forced casualness. “You give good hugs.”

And he did. As dopey as Marius could be, he gave some of the most exuberant hugs out of everyone in the group. The awkward ginger gave her a dazzling smile that stretched from ear to ear, and scooped her up. With his arms woven around her waist, he picked her up and started spinning her around in circles. All she could do was wrap her own arms around his shoulders and bury her face in the crook of his neck to keep from laughing out loud.

When he finally put her down she felt pleasantly dizzy. Marius had a self-satisfied grin on his face, that just screamed “ _I helped!_ ” It was so innocent she could just weep.

“It’s funny; I don’t understand either of you, and you’re such complete opposites.”

“Huh?” Éponine asked, not sure what he meant by that statement. It was seemingly out of the blue, and she didn’t know who this other person was. Although she could guess.

“You and Cosette,” Marius confirmed revealing the true depths of his obliviousness.

“Oh?” she asked half-heartedly, trying not to sound too disappointed. She felt as if she’d swallowed a rock. Marius wasn’t hers. And the closer she got to Cosette, the worse she felt about intruding like this. Éponine wasn’t going to be _that_ woman.

“You two are the most important women in my life, and yet you’re complete opposites,” the pre-law said with a pleasant shrug. “You know how she treats objects as eternal memory keepers, and such. The other day she didn’t want a hug, but somehow my gloves made it all better. You’re the opposite. Objects don’t matter to you, but people do.”

Well, that was more innocuous than she’d been expecting. The comparison hadn’t even held a preference. Had this conversation been between Éponine and Cosette, it would’ve been an interesting one. The jealous ache in her stomach faded into a fuzzy guilt.

She didn’t resent Cosette for being crazy about Marius. She didn’t resent Marius for being crazy about Cosette. They were two pictures of sweetness in the group, and they fit with each other well. When she forced herself to truly look at them, she could see a rightness that never would’ve existed between her and Marius.

“Yeah, what d’you know,” Éponine said uneasily, forcing herself to chuckle.

He wasn’t hers, and that full realization had taken much too long in coming. They couldn’t fit, so it was time to stop trying.

“I don’t know if I ever said this to you, but I’m really happy for you and Cosette,” she said, and breathed out a sigh of relief. More than just throwing her hands up in defeat, this was her letting go and it felt surprisingly good. “You guys are cute together.”

“Yeah, she’s wonderful…” Marius said dreamily, before cutting himself off. That feat was rare in and of itself, but in a rare moment of Pontmercy wisdom, he glanced over to her and pulled her into a short side-hug. “I hope you find that too, ‘Ponine.”

“I know,” she said with a soft smile. “And thanks.”


	7. Support Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not only can I hardly believe people are still reading this, I'm floored by how amazing of a response I've gotten from my return. I have had people welcoming me back, and I cannot tell you how much that means to me. I will try not to let you down.
> 
> On that note, hope you like this chapter!

When Marius rang her doorbell, Cosette hadn’t been expecting to see Éponine standing next to him at the doorstep, practically buried in her boyfriend’s circus tent-sized sweatshirt. She had spent half of the night in her closet, trying on her shirts, pants, and skirts of every color and style. But nothing seemed to be infusing confidence into her. All of her colors had been failing, and all of her shades stopped accentuating her, because there wasn’t anything left to accentuate. She’d eventually just settled on a faded pair of gray sweatpants, and a baggy orange t-shirt of her Papa’s. And of course, Cosette hadn’t taken off Marius’ gloves since he’d given them to her.

The Amis couldn’t start fighting on two battlegrounds. Cosette had Claquesous’ attention, so involving them would catch his attention as well. And all it would do was put Éponine and Grantaire in more danger than they already were in. Cosette had known that she (and maybe Marius) was on her own.

But seeing Éponine there in that hideous sweatshirt and black pants (Éponine could pull off the disheveled look and still look put together) brought a whole new wave of tears to her eyes. Besides Marius (who didn’t really count because he was a _boy_ , and her boyfriend besides) Éponine was probably her best friend, and she’d hated being separate from her. The best she could do was leave dimes to guard the threshold, but it wasn’t enough. Not with the threat of Claquesous looming over them both.

She pulled Éponine into a tight hug, and sniffled into her shoulder (she couldn’t really care about the state of the sweatshirt, so she felt no remorse) all the while mouthing thank you’s to Marius over her shoulder. They were all sick with worry and heavy with exhaustion, and so every hug between the three was tainted with the weight. Cosette felt like a drunk clutching at a lamppost to keep herself upright. And yet, none of them were steady enough to be leaned on.

Hurriedly, she gathered herself together (since all of her fail-safe charms had started failing, she’d felt herself scattering) and pulled the both of them inside the house before shutting the doors and closing the drapes. Even in that relative safety, the weight was inescapable.

Cosette made a decision.

Somewhat like in hibernation, she found every blanket and pillow in the house and turned it into a little nest, and for the next several hours, they all slept together in a pile on the floor. But where the sleeping bags during hibernation offered the illusion of personal space, the nest cut straight through the pretenses to the contact comfort they all needed. Even though Éponine was hit the hardest by this entire situation, somehow Cosette wound up in the middle. Her face was buried in Marius’ chest, and her arms wrapped around Éponine.

She couldn’t find the strength to regret it.

When she finally woke up again four hours later, she then made them all Chinese mooncakes and Jasmine-Oolong Hibiscus tea for breakfast. They all ate silently because they knew that the moment they started speaking was the moment they had to start figuring out what to do, and every possibility was closing down around them.

After everyone finished their mooncakes, Cosette silently gathered up the dishes and made her way to the sink. The weight in their postures hadn’t lessened from the nap. She took great care to wash each individual plate, mug, and piece of silverware until it shone. Then she went through the slow ritual of drying each one before replacing them in their rightful drawers. She could’ve just rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher, but the slightest bit of procrastination probably wouldn’t hurt too much.

Even as she put the last fork away and turned back to the kitchen table, Cosette could feel the change in the air. Instead of a communal location for dining and discussion, the table looked like the center of a war room. From the way Éponine rested her forearms against the table, Cosette could already tell that she would be their general. They were on their own, and now they needed to devise a plan of attack. Resigned, she walked back to her seat and slowly sat down.

And the reprieve was over.

“How do we even do this?” she asked them both nervously. Éponine pursed her lips, and Marius just shrugged helplessly.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac always made it look so easy. They would devise a strong backbone to a strategy, and then everyone would collectively help finalize the details.

“Well, somehow, we need to get Claquesous selling or talking about selling, and get Javert to be there for it,” Éponine said slowly. “We just have to figure out how to facilitate it.”

“So…” Marius drew out. “How do we do that?”

“Éponine can’t let Claquesous see her,” she said.

Normally Cosette would assume that was already established, but if they were going into strategy mode it wouldn’t hurt to lay out all the facts. Besides, with Marius here, it would probably help him to be reminded of every factor. Her boyfriend would be a great lawyer one day; he was smart, and with all the information in front of him, he could work wonders. Unfortunately, throw him a curveball and he splintered.

“Javert probably shouldn’t see me either,” Éponine said with a scowl, like she hated saying it. “I don’t know if I’m in missing persons, or if the mob knows I’m here, or if Javert has dirty cops in his staff. Better safe than sorry, y’know?”

Talk was slow and long. They tried to come up with a plan, but there was always some unseen risk for one of them to reject it. Marius would refuse to let either her or Éponine risk themselves, no matter how much they stressed that there would have to be some risks taken. Éponine’s edges curled in frustration every time one of them tried to keep her away from the conflict. And Cosette just felt tired and heavy. Though involving the others would mean risking them as well, Cosette almost wished they were here. Because she had the sinking feeling that without them, they had no hope.

When she was little and had just started living with Papa, he had spent his days making sure she was happy. He bought her a beautiful doll that she named Catherine, let her plant flowers in the window boxes, and taught her how to play chess. It was elegant and complex, and Cosette had always found it strangely beautiful. The wooden pieces were standard designs, but to a child, they looked regal. Each piece housed secrets and stories; their strengths held personality, and together they became the epitome of unity.

She never quite connected the student club to the family everyone else kept insisting they were. Cosette already had a family and as much as she loved the group, the Amis would never be the same to her as Papa. But they were right together, almost like a perfect design; the group made up a full set on a chessboard.

The only person she’d ever dared to explain this to had been Jehan. One day they’d been sitting out in the hall of the sophomore dorms, waiting for Marius or Courfeyrac to return. Jehan had left his keys at Bahorel’s single the day before, and Marius hadn’t bought a second key for her yet, so they were stuck. The poet had decided that the only thing to do in the hall was bond, and so they talked for half an hour. He explained how he’d found his way to the group, so Cosette hesitantly mentioned it.

"What makes you think we're chess pieces?" he asked with genuine curiosity, and none of the skepticism or condescension she was used to.

Pleasure bubbled up in her, and Cosette only paused for a moment before shaking off the trepidation and explaining.

"We formed under a common goal, and use our varying strengths to independently and unitedly affect the outcome of our metaphorical game. And together we become a set."

She waited for him to say that she didn’t make sense, or that it was a stupid way to look at things. People always said things like that to her, and she loathed it. Of course it didn’t make sense, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t all true. But the words never came. Instead, the poet just smiled at her with bright eyes.

"So we are," he said with a pleasant chuckle. "I've never looked at it that way. I suppose Enjolras is our king."

Cosette shook her head. "Enjolras is strong and direct; linear in both thought and action. He could never stand the slow, passive movement."

At that point, Jehan broke out into a full-belly laugh. "Too true. So he's a rook then. That's probably for the best; you know how our fearless leader feels about monarchist governments. So our king is Combeferre. Who's his queen?"

"Éponine, though she belongs to nobody. She goes everywhere and does everything."

Cosette paused. This was the point in which she could stop and change the topic. Most people weren’t interested in chess metaphors beyond the obvious pieces, and if she wanted to get out, that was the time to do it. But Jehan looked so open and genuine, and she had never spoken about this to anybody. This had been before she befriended Éponine, back when she had only just started coming to meetings. And she liked these people; she wanted to belong with these people. So instead of curling back into her shell, she kept her chin up and continued.

"You're a bishop."

“Oh really?” he asked, a slight flush in his cheeks. “Why’s that?”

“You move in angles, only walking in the dark and surrounding yourself in light.”

“That… makes a surprising amount of sense,” Jehan said slowly, and his expression darkened for a moment before returning to meet her eyes with a cheerful grin. “Tell me about the others.”

Cosette saw that melancholy simmering beneath the surface, but chose not to mention it. Once again, her ability to act like an oblivious blonde worked to her advantage.

“Joly is your inverse, surrounded by darkness but moving in the light. And Bahorel is on the other side of Enjolras,” she said. “Grantaire and Marius are pawns: slow moving at first and easily overlooked. But their potential is hindered only by the journey it takes to reach their goal.”

“That’s just beautiful. Now if only we could get our resident cynic to see it that way.” Jehan’s warm glow had returned by that point. “What about Courfeyrac? And Feuilly, Bossuet, and Musichetta?”

“Courfeyrac is a knight. He moves with a hooked movement, coming from nowhere with unexpected value. And Bossuet is his opposite pair.”

“Oh, Courf would just love that,” Jehan said, clapping his hands together in glee. “It fits too; those two are always working together to keep spirits up when finals roll around. I have no clue how, but I swear they could make jokes at the gates of hell.”

“Feuilly is the unique final piece in our set; he’s a fully realized pawn become bishop. Like Joly, he moves only in light, despite his surrounding darkness,” Cosette said. Upon seeing Jehan’s confusion, she quickly explained. “Musichetta is a queen of her own board. She plays a game beyond us, but love always keeps her close.”

Cosette had been so grateful at the time when Marius wandered up to them and asked why they were sitting out in the hall. Jehan took one look at her and had the blessed sense not to mention her chessboard of friends in front of him. And she left before they had a moment alone, so the poet never got the chance to ask where she fit into the metaphor.

And since she was still trying to find her place on the board, she was relieved not to have to dodge the question,

Now, she desperately wished she could figure out her place, and regretted never sharing her theory with Éponine or Marius, because she didn’t know how to explain the hunch that they were going to fail. The Amis were a full set, and separating them like this caused a terrible fissure. Their weak, half cooked theories were evidence enough that they needed the others. Éponine was a queen that was pinned down, unable to move. Cosette’s place was still hazy, but she was the piece in direct threat. And poor Marius was a pawn struggling (and unable) to protect all of his pieces.

Cosette couldn’t think of a single chess strategy to possibly give them the upper hand. Not in the confines of the risks Marius was willing to take. And that was when she understood exactly what her role in this was: what she had to do. Cosette was the piece that had to be sacrificed to gain the tactical advantage.

In that moment, she was glad of the metaphor to fall back on because the reality just made her nauseous.

“Guys, stop it,” she found herself saying, cutting off her boyfriend shooting down another proposed plan. “We can go on arguing this all day, but we all know that I’m going to have to play bait to draw out Claquesous.”

Marius’ eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Éponine’s eyes dropped to the table. And Cosette wondered for a moment if she’d gone deaf. If the world had been broken like an old VHS tape, only playing slow and gnarled. Éponine had seen the outcome in the works long before Cosette had mentioned it. Perhaps she considered it on the way over, but couldn’t bring herself suggest it.

“Cosette no,” she said lowly. But there was no force in it. The olive skinned freshman wouldn’t risk her, so Cosette had to force her hand.

Éponine was a handicapped queen, and there was no other way out of the woods but to force a pawn into a crown.

“That’s crazy!” Marius shouted at the same time. Tears sprang up in his eyes.

“It’s the only way, Ep,” Cosette pleaded to her best friend, not even looking at her boyfriend. He couldn’t be reasoned with, only coerced by a majority vote. It was Éponine who had to let her do this. “He’s after me, so he’ll only come out of hiding for me. I can talk him into incriminating himself while Marius’ hidden in the bushes by the front step, recording the whole thing. It’s probably only a matter of hours before he reaches out to someone else and we’ve lost our chance.”

For several long moments her best friend said nothing. Éponine’s eyes were cast downward, and Cosette just sat there stoically waiting for her to meet her gaze. It was clear that the girl at the other end of the table didn’t want this to be happening. In a better world she would feel free to get scared and cry and hide until it all just went away and she was safe again. In a fair world she would be able to face Claquesous herself and beat him into a pulp, until she won her freedom and achieved some fleeting closure. In a perfect world, none of those childhood horrors would’ve befallen her in the first place.

But in this world, Éponine had to sit straight, frown, and gather up the courage to send her friend into peril. And knowing Éponine, it would’ve been infinitely easier for her to just throw herself into the fray.

Cosette wanted to surround her friend in dimes that she’d taken from Marius and Courfeyrac’s (and realistically Jehan’s, since he lived with them at least three days a week) spare change bowl.   She wanted to bury Éponine in Gingko leaves, and shed a hundred tears into a hundred jam jars so the runaway wouldn’t need to be afraid of crying anymore. That was the way Cosette had always been used to; she knew that there was an innate passivity in her demeanor. She externalized safety and friendship into objects that acted like charms, but it wasn’t enough this time. Now, Cosette could (and would have to) do more.

_I can do this_ , she said without words.

_I don’t want you to_ , Éponine replied.

_I’m the only one who can._

With her eyes, Cosette asked for her best friend’s crown.

Éponine shuddered as she sighed and held Cosette’s gaze.

“If Marius goes out to explain the plan to Javert, then there’s no way he can come back without drawing attention,” Éponine said finally, mournfully. “Claquesous would be out of town before Javert could arrest him. Marius would have to be with Javert; I’d have to film it.”

“Whoa! What?” Marius bellowed, unaware of the conversation that had passed between the two of them while he had been sitting in disbelief. “Éponine, we’re _not_ considering this.”

But it was already decided. They both resented it, they were both terrified of it, but it was resolved. Marius would understand, or if not understand, he would play the part that they needed him to play when it came down to it.

“She’s right Pontmercy,” Éponine said wearily, like she didn’t want to think about what they were about to do anymore. “It’s our best bet.”

“What? Have you both lost it? You can’t! It’s not safe!”

Marius looked too open, too terrified, too vulnerable. Everything about him just radiated sheer panic, and it was choking her. Cosette couldn’t think about what she was about to do any more than Éponine could. All she would let herself picture is a black rook capturing the white pawn. She so desperately needed Marius to cope with this so he could reassure her. But when Marius cried and begged like that, it was all Cosette could do not to bury herself in the attic and never step outside again.

“Look at us!” she snapped at him, gesturing to the room around her. “We’re hiding in the house with the curtains drawn and all the doors and windows locked. We’re not safe!”

“But…”

“Marius, I love you but this isn’t going to work if you keep trying to protect me.”

“You… what?”

_No._

Cosette blanched because that was _not_ supposed to happen. Not now and not like this.

“What?” she repeated with her flaky blonde head tilt, hoping desperately that against all odds he hadn’t heard her. “Nothing.”

Admitting that she loved him, even just to herself was something that she couldn’t find any way to externalize. The love that she had for this silly, big-earred, wide-smiled pre-law student was an emotion that she created all on her own. It didn’t come from anywhere besides inside herself, and couldn’t be redirected anywhere outside of Marius. There was nowhere safe to keep it.

“You… you said you love me,” Marius stammered out in a single minded wonder, staring at her like she was an angel.

Telling him would be giving her love to him in a way that she couldn’t get back. It was intangible and inescapable. If he were to wither and die she couldn’t find it again. Marius could be gone and could take her love with him, leaving her insides curling and rotting.

Maybe one day she could have given her love to him comfortably. He was healthy and sturdy, and ever loving, ever attentive. But now? None of them were safe, and she was diving headfirst into mob business. Cosette couldn’t afford to let go of any of the pieces of herself, and especially not that one.

“No I didn’t!” she squeaked, her voice trying to reach decibels that only dogs could hear.

“I love you too.”

With those words, the churning oceans in her mind stilled instantly, leaving a glassy smooth lake. Marius was wearing the same goofy lopsided grin he wore that day he said he understood why she took his pens. But today he gave her much more than pens; he gave her his love so easily, so naturally. Where her love had vanished from within her, his now nestled closely. More than pens and gloves, she held a part of Marius that belonged to no one else.  

“You do?” she asked helplessly, embarrassed by how her voice trembled.

“Yeah, since before I even knew your name.”

He didn’t even look like he missed it. He looked relieved, as if it had belonged to her from the beginning. Against all odds, she felt like she was safe within him as well. He wouldn’t vanish, she wouldn’t vanish. Maybe that was what love was.

There were tears streaming down her face as she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into a long kiss. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she realized that he was crying too.

Marius had her. Marius would always have her. Even if she were captured, her piece would not be captive on the black side of the board, lost and unseen.

Cosette refused to be afraid anymore.

“Marius, I love you. But I have to do this.”

Her boyfriend sighed and rubbed tiredly at his face. Of all things, the awkward ginger never looked so drained and defeated. Slowly, he buried his face in his arms and collapsed onto the table. Cosette and Éponine exchanged a glance, wondering whether one of them should make sure he was alright. But before they could make any decisions, he rose again. His face was blotchy and red, like it always got when he was fiercely embarrassed or worked up, and he looked miserable.

“Of course you do,” Marius said with a sigh. “Both of you. There isn’t anything I can do, is there?”

Cosette’s gaze softened at the defeated tone in her boyfriend’s voice, and wanted to reach out to comfort him in some way. But Éponine’s eyes turned hard as she looked at him.

“You can make sure we have backup,” the brunette said stonily.

Marius looked up at her, petrified and stunned. But only for a moment. He recovered quickly enough to nod jerkily at them.

“Okay,” he said.

Then, they really began to plan.


	8. Arm Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I've said before, this chapter has my favorite character backstory that I've come up with for this fic. Everyone has given me so many compliments on my character's backstories, and I have been holding onto this one for a while. I've never seen it done in modern AUs, and I hope you like it.
> 
> Also, sorry about the cliffhanger ending. ;)

After they finalized their plan and sent Marius to explain it to Javert (because by this point, there was next to nothing they could do to change it) Éponine was dragged upstairs by the tips of her fingers. Apparently, Cosette needed help deciding what to wear.

And no, Éponine didn’t like any of this. In fact, she despised all of it. Watching Marius leave to finalize the entire plan was the most painful experience she’s endured in much too long. His last words reverberated in her head.

_I’m here._

The whole point of getting out of the apartment was so _she_ could do something to claim her freedom. Not just curl up in the bushes and watch while Cosette dealt with the monsters from her past.

But Cosette needed help, and even if it was just clothing she felt obligated to be there. Éponine still wasn’t fluent in the language of Cosette, but she thought she remembered the blonde saying once that clothing, hair, and makeup were a person’s way of manipulating what others see, and therefore an armor of sorts. Hell if Éponine could understand it, but it helped Cosette. So she sat in the desk chair while Cosette stood in front of her closet mirror, looking through her wardrobe.

“You were a child when this started,” Cosette said sadly, looking at her through her reflection.

Éponine sighed, really hating the sympathy talks. What part of _no Good Will Hunting moments_ didn’t they understand? But Cosette looked scared, so she acquiesced and stoically said, “Yes I was.”

As if that had decided something for her, Cosette pulled a pair of soft lemon-colored jeans and a simple pair of black ballet flats out of her closet and threw them onto her bed.

“Your life was cold and dark,” the blonde continued. “But you were unafraid.”

Those words made Éponine want to squirm in her chair. She kept her voice as neutral as before when she instead replied with, “Well, I had to be.”

“How ‘Ponine?” Cosette spun around suddenly, clutching at her hands and beseeching with that innocent wide-eyed face. “Teach me, I’m scared.”

Éponine’s insides melted. This wasn’t about sympathy or pity. This was her friend understanding that she was the only other person who could know how she felt. Cosette wanted advice about Claquesous’ weaknesses, how to deceive him, and how not to fall apart during it all.

Once again, she loathed that she had to put Cosette through this. But instead of the scowl often frozen on her features in the past few days, Éponine forced her face to melt into a comforting smile. Or, whatever could pass for a smile, anyway.

“You keep your chin up, your lips tight, and remember what’s at stake.”

Cosette stumbled a few steps backwards at the words and slowly fell to the floor. Clearly, that hadn’t been what she’d wanted to hear. But Éponine didn’t have any better advice for her. Telling her to dehumanize Claquesous into a walking meat machine wouldn’t help because somehow objects were more real to Cosette than people. She couldn’t give her any tips for Claquesous because she never saw him in business mode, only underneath sheets.

“Papa’s tags,” Cosette finally said, lurching up to stand and bolting out of her bedroom.

Huh?

Helplessly, Éponine followed until she reached the doorway to Cosette’s father’s room. It was very sparse, furnished only by a bed, a dresser, a desk, and the few belongings resting on them. She didn’t feel comfortable crossing the doorframe into the private space, but Cosette waved her in until she was standing next to her by the dresser. Gently, the blonde opened the top drawer and opened a box behind the bundles of socks and underwear. Inside were two shining dogtags on a chain.

Oh. _Oh._

“I didn’t know your father was ex-military,” Éponine breathed.

“Former military. It’s incorrect and rude to say ex-military,” Cosette said routinely, shooting her a kindly reproachful side glance. “But yeah, when Papa was a kid he was caught aiding a high profile robbery. The prosecution said that he could either do military service or be tried as an adult. So he chose service.”

“Woah,” she murmured in response (though she wasn’t sure exactly what she was responding to at this point) and fiddled uncomfortably with the hem of Marius’ sweatshirt.

There was something unnerving about how Cosette turned to her father’s dogtags because she needed strength. It gnawed at her, guilt threatening to suffocate. Maybe because she was sending Cosette into a warzone of their own tonight.

“Yeah, he became a Navy physician and was enlisted for two tours of duty by court order.”

“How long was that?”

“Well, it was supposed to be five years, but then something happened and stop loss orders were being put in place, so he kept getting renewed,” Cosette said with a proud, sad smile on her face. “He was there for almost twenty years.”

“Shit,” she said, because there was nothing left to say.

 Carefully, Cosette slipped the chain with the two dogtags over her head.

“If it wasn’t for Uncle Ultime, I don’t know if Papa could’ve handled it,” Cosette continued needlessly. Éponine wanted to interrupt her, saying that she didn’t need to know the details of a life that her father liked to keep private. But slipping into the story seemed to calm and focus the blonde so she let her tell it. “Papa saved his life and they became like brothers. After he finally got out, Papa even changed his last name to Fauchelevent. I think it caused him less pain than _Valjean_ did. But _Valjean_ is still printed on his tags, and _Valjean_ is still the root of his strength.”

The guilt clawing at Éponine’s stomach doubled at her words. Because of _her_ Cosette would be in danger. Had she not been threatened by Claquesous’ presence, Cosette could have just rejected the offer and stayed safe. Because of her, both Cosette _and_ her father were in danger.

_Don’t do it,_ she wanted to say.

“Will your Dad mind you borrowing them?” she asked instead.

“No, Papa will understand,” Cosette replied sweetly, and pulled her out of the room and back towards her own bedroom.

Cosette’s bedroom fit her perfectly. The walls were a lavender color that matched her deep purple and white bed sheets. Catherine (her doll from childhood) sat on the pillows staring at them. She had a huge bookcase, a crowded desk, and a tic-tac-toe board shaped shelf thing all stuffed to the brim with tiny little knick-knacks of every kind. There were cups and cups of school supplies on her desk. Books, movies, card decks, postcards, journals, and letters were stuffed into the bookcase. And there were random _things_ all over the shelves. From sea shells, to bowls of dimes, to bags of marbles, to chapstick, to jewelry, to kids toys, to magazines, to snow globes, to a dried gourd from Halloween. There was even a mangled fork sitting in a flower vase. It was cluttered and spacious, and Cosette had easily found her own space in the middle of it all.

Éponine watched sadly as Cosette disappeared back into her enormous, over-stuffed, walk-in closet and reappeared with a simple black tank top. Slowly, the blonde changed into it, and tucked the dogtags into her shirt. Then, she met Éponine’s eyes and smiled sadly.

“That’s everything, isn’t it?” Cosette asked.

_No,_ Éponine wanted to panic. _No, that isn’t everything! We’re not ready._

“Yep, that’s it.”Éponine calmed herself down, and nuzzled into Marius’ sweatshirt.

Cosette rested both of her hands on Éponine’s shoulders, and stared at her.

“I’ll take back the crown they stole from you,” Cosette said, a strange intensity in her voice.

She had no clue what the blonde was talking about, but that wasn’t too uncommon when it came to Cosette. Sometimes Éponine (and the rest of the group) could deduce the meanings behind her words from a situation’s context. But more often than not, it was Cosette’s expression that gave it away. And this one was fiercely affectionate; it almost hurt to be that loved by someone (two someones, she reminded herself) who was about to risk their life _for her_.

All she could do was swallow the lump in her throat and nod.

The plan was pretty standard. Cosette would text Claquesous to let him know that she was interested (when she checked her phone, the blonde had found the new contact “ _Cabuc_ ” stored away, and she had no clue when he’d done that) and organize a meet-up at her house that night. Éponine would hide in the bushes with Marius’ phone (the only one that they knew was safe) recording the conversation. Once she got some solid evidence, or if Cosette was in danger, she’d send a pre-typed message to Marius, who’d be waiting with Javert and a mess of police backup nearby to swoop in. During the confusion, Éponine would slip Cosette the phone so Javert wouldn’t have to see her. The cops would probably have to pretend to arrest Cosette too, for her own protection, but once Claquesous was out of sight they’d be safe.

It was weak, but it was the best they had.

Marius had left two hours before to fill Javert into the plan, and had called back using Javert’s cell phone so Éponine would know what number to text. Cosette was now all dressed and kissing the dogtags like someone religious might kiss a cross.

Éponine felt nauseous.

The goodbyes before Marius had left had been heart wrenching. Cosette and Marius had clung to each other desperately when they hugged goodbye, and Éponine’s stomach had felt hollow for more than one reason. Mostly because she was putting two of her closest friends in positions where they might get hurt, or even killed. Claquesous almost definitely had a gun on him, and even though she doubted he’d be stupid enough to fire it, it was possible.

_No,_ she decided. _Neither of them were going to get hurt tonight. Not on her account._

Then Marius had come over to her. She’d tried to give his ginormous hoodie back, but he wouldn’t take it. He’d said that she could give it back to him when this was all over. Then he looked down and opened his mouth a few times, trying to find the words to say whatever it was he wanted to say.

“Look ‘Ponine; I’ll be…” he started, then trailed off. “I promise… I just want you to know… well… I’m here.”

She buried the warm feeling that bloomed in her chest at the words. Faking confidence, she’d lightly punched his arm and said, “that’s all I needed to know.”

And now that he left, now that Cosette was about to leave, Éponine refused to dwell on how true it was.


	9. Release Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're back to the boys. Things may or not be about to fall apart. 
> 
> Enjoy!

As usual, Courfeyrac’s eyes shot open at 7:30 am. It only took him a few seconds to adjust to the surroundings and remind himself that he was in his sleeping bag at Grantaire and Éponine’s apartment. Slowly, he stretched out the knots that had formed in his neck and back in the night and stood up. He started walking to get coffee, but was instantly stopped by the sight near the corner of the too-small living room.

Enjolras and Grantaire were cuddling. Or, as close as he’s ever seen Enjolras get to cuddling. Their fearless leader was lying straight as a board on his side, an arm tucked underneath his head. Grantaire was curled into a ball in the blond’s sleeping bag, head buried in Enjolras’ stomach. From what he could tell, their knees were touching as well.

It was an odd form of cuddling, as if neither was sure what was considered inappropriate (a term Courfeyrac laughed at; no such thing!) and fumbled into the halfway point between normal human contact and “make room for Jesus” space.

Whatever it was though, Courfeyrac whipped out his phone and proceeded to preserve the image for posterity’s sake. And maybe for blackmail purposes as well, it was too soon to tell. He ambled into the little kitchenette and started the coffee machine with a huge grin on his face. No matter what he ended up doing with it, this was an excellent way to start the morning.

When he finally had a mug of coffee, he wandered back to the epicenter of the living room and flopped onto the freakishly comfy couch to enjoy his morning caffeine.

And the moment that his ass landed on that couch was the first indicator that something was very wrong. Because instead of hitting the magically cozy fabric of the couch, he landed on the synthetic fibers of a sleeping bag. And what’s worse, the sleeping bag was decidedly empty.

Courfeyrac sprung up to his knees (careful not to spill his coffee) and spun around, counting every Amis on Grantaire and Éponine’s floor. Because maybe he had climbed out and collapsed on the floor with everyone else during the night. But no, Courfeyrac would recognize his roommate’s stupid slate gray sleeping bag anywhere, and Marius was nowhere to be found.

Marius was prone to bouts of impulsive stupidity. Somehow, Pontmercy could find a way to make it all about him and charge at Claquesous with polite requests to please go away. What really puzzled Courfeyrac was how his roommate managed to get away with it. As James Bond, Marius… wasn’t.

Oh no.

Fuck no.

This was decidedly _not_ an excellent way to start the morning.

Courfeyrac all but launched himself over the back of the couch in a scramble to get into the one bedroom in the apartment. He flung open the door and was met with an empty room. Shit, Éponine was gone. Weren’t they all basically here to babysit her and make sure she _didn’t_ do something like this?

As nervous as he was, he knew better than to start a panic. Instead, he carefully maneuvered his way through the pile of bodies on the floor, approached the two friends that he absolutely needed to talk to, and flicked their noses.

“Enjy, ‘Ferre, wake up. We have a snafu on our hands,” he hissed quietly, hoping that no one else woke up.

To his left, Combeferre groaned and rolled onto his back, a dark scowl on his face. Of course, the glare lost some of its menace when his eyes were still half shut, but Courfeyrac recognized the silent threat that this snafu had _better_ be serious. As a silent apology, Courfeyrac gave the philosophy major his cup of coffee, because Combeferre needed the caffeine _much_ more than he did to wake up.

A few feet on his left, Enjolras’ eyes popped open, and his entire body tensed for a moment as he realized the position he was in. But that moment quickly ended when Courfeyrac’s words seemed to sink in, and he abruptly moved into a sitting position.

“What’s wrong Courf?” the blond asked, when it became clear that Combeferre wouldn’t be speaking until it was necessary or the caffeine kicked in.

“My idiot roommate and Éponine are gone. They took off,” he explained with a scowl.

“What?” Enjolras demanded, standing up to move the conversation away from the rest of the sleeping group (although Courfeyrac suspected Enjolras just wanted to move the conversation away from Grantaire.) They walked into the kitchenette, and after a moment of silent grumbling, Combeferre stood up and joined them, coffee still in hand.

“Just once our lives are going to be peaceful for five minutes at a time and the shock of it will kill me,” Combeferre muttered as he walked over.

Courfeyrac could see that a lot more coffee was going to be in order for all three of them during the course of this conversation, so he filled the coffee pot again (this time with enough for all of them.)

“They didn’t tell anyone where they were going which means that they’re off doing something monumentally stupid,” Enjolras said with a snarl.  

“What makes you think that they didn’t tell anyone?” he asked.

“Because no one looks like they were knocked out with a frying pan or gagged and tied to a radiator,” Combeferre supplied, still half asleep and therefore thoroughly irritated with the world. The rare, snippy wit of their Mother Hen would be in full bloom this morning. Usually it was a beautiful (and by beautiful, he meant hilarious) thing to witness, but at the moment he couldn’t conjure up any excitement. 

Awesome, Courfeyrac groaned. He already hated today.

“So what do we do?” he asked, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “When R wakes up and finds out she’s gone he’ll go berserk!”

“And probably compromise her in the process,” Enjolras finished with a scowl of his own, glancing behind him in a way that was probably _meant_ to be subtle.

“He looked pretty exhausted last night,” Combeferre said softly, as if he was trying to find some comfort for Enjolras. “He may be out for a while,”

“He can’t sleep forever,” their leader said with a resigned sigh.

Courfeyrac snapped his fingers as if he had the perfect solution.

“What about that stuff Ep slipped him? We could use that!” he said, not sure if he was joking or not.

Regardless of whether he was trying to lighten the mood or put forth an honest suggestion, it didn’t work because Enjolras shot him a ruthless side glare, and Combeferre (more awake now but still groggy) stared at him in dry exasperation.

“We’re not drugging him, Courf,” Enjolras bit out.

He raised his hands up in surrender, choosing not to mention that the “stuff” Éponine gave him was just melatonin, which was just a hormone supplement that the body produced naturally. It wouldn’t have won him any points back, and anyway, Courfeyrac was pretty sure that Éponine was the only person who could get away with slipping Grantaire sleeping pills of any kind.

“So what do you suggest we do?” he finally asked, trying to move this away from a snipping match and towards something closer to productive.

“Let’s start with a ground rule: no more impulsive idiots.” Combeferre stated dryly, giving Enjolras a pointed look. In response, the politics major rolled his eyes and begrudgingly nodded.

Courfeyrac knew that they were supposed to be voting on something this morning before everything fell to shit, and he had no clue what it was. But if the little interaction told him anything, this impulsive disaster was a perfect distraction from Enjolras’ soon-to-be impulsive disaster.

“Going from there,” the bespectacled man continued, “I say we quietly look for them.”

“Please,” he couldn’t help but scoff. “If they’re playing it smart they’re at Cosette’s. And if they’re there, we can’t draw attention to them by going to find out.”

“I find it hard to believe she’d take off like that.” Enjolras muttered, seemingly to himself, with a dark scowl on his face.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre shared an incredulous glance before turning to their fearless (and far too often oblivious) leader.

“Really?” they both asked him, only a beat off from each other.

It was moment’s like these when Courfeyrac couldn’t help the flood of warmth that he felt for these people. Of course, Les Amis de l’ABC was Enjolras and Combeferre’s baby, but he had been the first person to sign up, and maybe because of that, Courfeyrac had wordlessly slotted himself into a leading position next to the two founders.

Of course, having the best track record with recruiting probably helped as well; he had been the one to mention the club to Joly (who was followed by Bossuet), had dragged Marius to an early meeting, picked Jehan out from the hoard of Freshman, and had been the first one to welcome Bahorel when he’d sauntered over to their table at the Corinth.

Sure, Enjolras took credit for finding Feuilly in the freshman club fair. Bahorel’s drink-off with Grantaire could arguably count as a recruit (two, since Éponine followed where Grantaire went.) And Marius had brought in Cosette. But he more than anyone else had an eye for new members of their strange, revolutionary little family. Enjolras was the stern but affectionate father, Combeferre was the all-seeing Mother Hen, and Courfeyrac was the fun Uncle who brought them all together.

And no matter the circumstances, it always gave him a rush of joy whenever he could see that connection.

“This sounds _exactly_ like her,” Combeferre took over for them both, taking care not to sound patronizing. “Excepting her lack of a note, I’d almost been waiting for her to try an escape.”

Courfeyrac reflected on Éponine and Grantaire’s relationship. They’d been through a lot together, and it didn’t make sense for her to leave him after all this time without a last word.

“Hey, check R’s phone,” he said.

Both Combeferre and Enjolras looked at him for a moment before they made the connection. Without a word of discussion about who the job fell to, Enjolras moved away from the little circle they’d formed and maneuvered through the sleeping students to reach Grantaire. Enjolras quietly unzipped the red sleeping bag from the side and slid the phone out from the cynic’s front pocket.

After rezipping the sleeping bag, their leader made his way back and showed them the phone, where a new text notification sat on the front. Instead of saying a name in the space where the contact name should be, a little symbol for a house sat instead.

“So, the apartment was trying to warn him about Ep?” he asked, part jokingly and part confused. “Spooky.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and pressed the button to view the message.

**don’t freak i’m safe at cosette’s. coming to get me will only draw attention to both of us**

“Well, that’s that,” Courfeyrac said as he snatched the phone from Enjolras, slightly pleased to have been proven right.

“What do you mean that’s that?” the blond snapped, glaring at him. “We have to help!”

“We will Enj, but right now is not the time to jump in,” Combeferre said placating. “We need to know more, figure out what Claquesous is planning. He could be operating in the college or reaching out to the town.”

“We need to find the contact,” Courfeyrac reminded them.

Enjolras sighed, and loosened the tension in shoulders Courfeyrac hadn’t even noticed how tense the politics major’s shoulders were until he sagged like that. To be honest, he really didn’t want to find out what that meant.

“Very well,” Enjolras conceded. “But we still need someone to stay with Grantaire. Someone who can keep him calm and rational.”

“I’ll stay for now.” Courfeyrac volunteered without a pause.

“I could switch with you later.”

Both he and Enjolras started at the sudden voice behind them. Combeferre, just stood unmoved from his dour morning face, cradling his mug of coffee in both hands. All three turned to find the source of the voice, and relaxed when they saw Jehan standing embarrassed on the other side of the kitchenette.

 “Sorry,” the poet said sheepishly, a blush on his face. “You’re just not as quiet as you think you are.”

Before any of them could take that in, a groan rose up from the other side of the room, attached to a fully awake Feuilly, still lying prone in his sleeping bag.

“You really fucking aren’t,” the Polish kid agreed with a grumble, and slowly began to sit up.

It was only a brief upward quirk of the lips, but Courfeyrac could see amusement in Combeferre’s eyes at the situation. And while Enjolras still wore a solemn frown, there was no mistaking that fatherly pride in his eyes. And Courfeyrac was just grinning widely. There were times when the Amis behaved like family, and there were times when they behaved like an army. And those moments when they were a little bit of both were always a treat, even during crazy times like this.

“Should I awaken the troops?” Jehan asked earnestly, slowly transitioning back into strategy mode.

“Let… let Grantaire sleep,” Enjolras said after a moment’s thought, wearing a strange expression that was almost gentle.

Jehan nodded, and began to navigate through the piles of people on the ground, waking everyone up, but keeping quiet enough so Grantaire slept on. Movement swirled around him, but Courfeyrac couldn’t help but keep his gaze fixed on their resident cynic. Grantaire was still curled into a ball in Enjolras’ bright red sleeping bag. His lips were pursed and his eyebrows were knitted together worriedly. Even when asleep the poor guy couldn’t catch a break.

Since his job for the day was basically spelled out already – watch Grantaire – Courfeyrac didn’t pay nearly as much attention to the battle plan as he should have. Instead, he just watched his friend’s faces. Occasionally Jehan or Bossuet would glance at him with heartbreaking expressions, and he would wink to them in reassurance. And staring up at Enjolras, he traded concerned glances with Combeferre more than once.

Enjolras looked tired.

Enjolras never looked tired. But he did; he looked exhausted.

Courfeyrac was relieved when Feuilly offered to patrol town with Enjolras, because Feuilly was level-headed, and had enough of their leader’s respect to be able to keep Enjolras from doing anything stupid. He was relieved when Combeferre volunteered for the research team because Combeferre was kind of a genius when it came to that stuff, and it kept him out of any direct threat. He was relieved when Bahorel and Jehan were paired together to patrol on campus.

But he wasn’t sure how he felt after they had all departed for their jobs, because Courfeyrac was left in an empty apartment, waiting for Grantaire to wake up.

Waiting to give his friend the news that’ll destroy his entire world.

Because if Grantaire thought he was good at hiding his emotions, he was a complete moron. Courfeyrac (and all of the other Amis) had known that their cynic was head over heels in love with their leader since the t-shirt rally. And it was obvious from the first meeting Grantaire had attended that his and Éponine’s friendship was a strong one. Everything he knew now just made what he’d guessed more explicit.

Éponine and the Amis were just about all Grantaire had in the world, and Courfeyrac had to wait for Grantaire to wake up to an empty apartment.

Courfeyrac was a generally impatient person, and had trouble waiting for something good. When he had to wait for something he knew was terrible, the fidgeting and nerves just multiplied by about 20,000. So he paced. He paced back and forth for hours, until his feet hurt and he felt somewhat dizzy.

So when the door opened at some indeterminate time later, Courfeyrac probably jumped about two feet in the air. He had no clue how long he’d spaced out for, but the sight of plaited dark blond hair couldn’t be a good sign.

“Seriously Jehan?” he whispered as loudly as he could, clutching at his chest. “This is twice today!”

“I swear it’s not intentional,” the poet said, peeking through the doorway with his hands jokingly raised.

“So you say…” Courfeyrac shot back, raising one eyebrow comically. It was far from his funniest, but anything to raise the mood would help. Instead he waited until Jehan has joined him leaning against the kitchenette counter and nodded his chin at Grantaire. “He’s still out.”  


“It’s almost 3 pm.”

As if he didn’t know. Courfeyrac had been staring at Grantaire, waiting for him to wake up since everyone left around 8:15 am.

“I swear I didn’t drug him,” he insisted, figuring he might as well clear the air now.

“I believe you,” Jehan said with a tiny amused smile before shifting his gaze back to the sleeping cynic. “He’s been strung thin since Claquesous arrived, and who knows what he was going through for the last six weeks?”

Oh. Courfeyrac had almost forgotten that. Almost forgotten that Grantaire had shifted from blatantly avoiding them (quite successfully he might add) to mobsters and terror.

Shit, Grantaire just couldn’t catch a break, could he?

“Please tell me you bring good news,” he pleaded.

“If no news is good news…” Jehan trailed off after that, unsure of what else to say.

Courfeyrac laughed humorlessly. Their college town was really much closer to a tiny city, and there was no way that eight kids could cover it all. For all the causes Les Amis de l’ABC had fought for in their (almost) two years as a club, this one was the most impossible, and the one with the most present danger. It was spiraling away from them too fast, and they were losing members in the process.

“By this point, probably,” he admitted with a scoff. In the span of a few days, they’d misplaced Enjolras (almost twice), lost Marius, and let Éponine slip out from under them. Every new development was stacking the odds against them.

 “Then yeah,” Jehan sarcastically drawled with a roll of the eyes and a slow nod of the head. “Plenty of good news.”

“Awesome.”

Courfeyrac briefly considered tossing the kitchen, because he wouldn’t be surprised if he found a few bottles of hard liquor stashed away somewhere. Instead, he just leaned to his right so he could lightly bump Jehan’s shoulder with his own. And in his peripheral vision Courfeyrac saw the poet grin slightly and lean to the side to nudge him back. For a moment it was almost peaceful. But then Grantaire shifted in his sleep and both of them tensed, expecting him to wake up. They waited in silence for several moments, and when it became clear that the cynic was still asleep Courfeyrac snarled in frustration.

“How the hell are we going to tell him?” he hissed out, spinning to face Jehan. He didn’t give the freshman a chance to speak before continuing. “No, really! How? I’ve been pacing for fucking hours, and I’ve still not nothing!”

“It’ll be okay, we’ll think of something.” Jehan said soothingly, resting a hand on his shoulder to still the nervous energy. “She’s probably safer in the rich neighborhood than here anyway.”

That reassurance meant next to nothing, because Courfeyrac didn’t feel particularly safe anywhere in this town at the moment. All he wanted to do was fidget, and bounce around, and get some of that tightly coiled energy out of his twitching muscles. Just do something for the sake of not feeling so useless. But he stilled anyway.

“What I don’t get is why she would risk it to go to Cosette’s,” he finally said, burying the frustration. “She can’t accomplish much of anything there either.”

He waited for Jehan’s vague (or insightful) comments on the nature of people, Éponine’s nature, or even just a shrug of commiseration.

“Shit,” Jehan said under breath after far too long a pause.

Jehan spun to face him and the poet’s eyes were flared in shock. Dread pooled in Courfeyrac’s stomach.

“What?” he asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Who would be more likely to report a disturbance to the police?” Jehan asked slowly, eyebrow raised. “Downtown or the nicer neighborhoods?”

“Fuck!” Courfeyrac hands immediately found themselves in his hair, pulling at it roughly just to give him something to do while he freaked out. “Do you think Claquesous spotted her on campus that day?”

Bahorel had sworn up and down that they hadn’t been seen, but maybe Éponine caught something that their goliath had missed. Did the mob have a signal for when they spot a target? An equivalent of a pirate’s black spot? Courfeyrac really had no clue; this was so out of his league. Beside him, Jehan was trying to keep quiet, trying to think it through. Carding his hands through his hair once more, Courfeyrac tried to calm down and done the same.

“She might have given us the slip to protect Grantaire,” Jehan said thoughtfully. “It _would_ be like her to confront him on her own. Maybe her plan is to barter for her freedom, and scream if he attacks.”

“Where has she gone?”

Hearing Grantaire’s voice from the floor startled both of them. They both flinched instinctively, and sobered immediately upon seeing the cynic standing up from the sleeping bag and staring at them. His face was purposefully neutral and his voice kept tightly level.

It was jolting. Grantaire had always been effusive with his emotions. Whether or not he addressed them, you could see every little thought play out on his expressions. A Grantaire that was impossible to read was troublingly foreign.

“R, You’re up.” Jehan said softly, trying to sooth him.

The poet approached him to try to find some way to comfort him. Or at least prepare to ease him into the truth. But as he approached, Grantaire flinched away. Jehan tried not to look hurt, but Courfeyrac spotted a flicker of it in his expression.

“Where’s Ep?” Grantaire repeated coldly, refusing to be calmed. Anger was starting to seep into his voice and Courfeyrac felt a trickle of fear. “Where has she gone?”

“Grantaire, you should probably sit down,” Jehan tried, not attempting to reach out again but still trying to sooth with his voice.

“No, I shouldn’t,” Grantaire said, looking gaunt and barely contained. “Where did Éponine go?”

Courfeyrac sighed. There was no way they’d be able to avoid this or ease the way. Their only hope was to keep him calm and tell him that everyone was already working on helping her. So he took a deep breath and said, “Cosette’s.”

At that, Grantaire cooled for a second and even went so far as to tilt his head to the side in surprise and confusion.

“Cosette’s?” he asked, puzzled. Maybe he expected them to say something else, like to the nearest firearms dealer. “She wouldn’t be that stupid. He’s one of the ones who… she knows Claquesous. She wouldn’t just ask him to…”

Grantaire trailed off at that, his expression going vague and distant. For a second, Courfeyrac wondered if they had somehow broken the guy. But then the cynic’s eyes widened and he all but sprinted for his and Éponine’s shared room. Courfeyrac and Jehan exchange a worried glance. If anyone could figure out what Éponine was up to, it’d be Grantaire. But odds are, none of them are going to like it. Wordlessly, they came to an agreement and followed the path to Grantaire’s room.

“R?” he asked tentatively as he stepped through the doorway.

Grantaire was kneeling in front of the closet, looking at a nice case. As they both walk around to stand behind him, Courfeyrac sees several knives sitting inside. Some of them were folded, others were open, and still more came with holsters. It had to be Éponine’s knife collection. Whatever that told Grantaire couldn’t be good, because he went pale and shakily stood up. The guy in front of him (it’s still hard to believe that Grantaire was older than him by a year) looked lost in a daze.

“What is it?” He asked again, trying to reach him.

“Three are gone,” Grantaire said distantly, not looking remotely aware of his surroundings, despite answering Courfeyrac’s question. It more just seemed like he was murmuring to himself. “The stockman’s nothing, just a pocket knife or a weak security blanket. The stiletto’s self-defense only, but spring assisted means it’s a quick draw. But Maria…”

“Maria?” Jehan pressed carefully.

“It’s a folding knife, her first,” Grantaire said foggily. “I gave it to her when we were still back there. So if she needed to, she could…”

As the words sunk in, Courfeyrac’s jaw dropped. According to Grantaire, she wasn’t going to barter with him, she was going to try to _kill_ him. This was so far beyond what he could’ve imagined, so far beyond what he was capable of dealing with right now.

“She wouldn’t…” he started to say, unsure. He couldn’t even imagine the position Éponine must be in, trapped and waiting to see what Claquesous will do. And Éponine did always like to take situations into her own hands. Was it really that far of a stretch that she’d try to defend herself and her new life from her old one?

The question seemed to awaken something in Grantaire. The fogged-over expression that he’d been wearing was gone, replaced with something raw and primal. Instead of looking like he was far away, now the cynic looked like he was all too present in the situation. His expression betrayed his utter panic; eyes wide, mouth hanging open helplessly, movements stuttering as if unsure of what to do.

The first time he’d really glimpsed the terrified, traumatized Grantaire was really only a few days ago. Of course, little things here and there had given hints that there was a mystery about Grantaire’s past, and most of the Amis had guessed at it. But seeing Grantaire trying to run away with Éponine in fear of Claquesous was the first real, public display. Watching him panic over Enjolras’ disappearance was the second.

Those were nothing. This was true terror. Grantaire didn’t even look human. He looked wild, and frantic, and almost rabid with fear. And in an instant, the cynic had shoved his way past both of them and was bolting for the door.

Before he could even process what had happened, Jehan had followed Grantaire and caught up with him in the living room. The poet body checked him and quickly pinned him to the ground, forcing his arms and legs down.

Courfeyrac couldn’t recognize his friend, and could only stare helplessly as Grantaire bucked and thrashed wildly underneath Jehan. Tears were running down his cheeks now, and he was letting out inhuman sobbing, grunting cries. Of course, the freshman was much stronger, and kept his weight pressed against him. Jehan looked to him for help, but Courfeyrac couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Movies showed people panicking and getting upset, but Courfeyrac doesn’t think they’ve ever shown it like _this_. The yowling, scrambling, wild terror that looked animalistic. Deer and raccoons and such didn’t think when they got caught in traps, did they? There was no thought or rational attempt to escape. Jehan’s pin was somewhat sloppy and Grantaire could probably knee him in the stomach and be out the door before they could follow him. But Grantaire didn’t seem to recognize anything; he just kept writhing and trying to push his way out.

“No! I have to stop her!” Grantaire shouted, choking and coughing on his own tears. “Please, I have to… she’s going to... get off me! Get off! Please! Ep’s going to...”

Courfeyrac wasn’t sure if Grantaire recognized him and Jehan at all anymore; if they processed in his brain as his friends anymore or if they were just obstacles that he had to fight against. It went beyond never having seen his friend like this, Courfeyrac had never seen a human being like this, and it was terrifying.

“Courf!” Jehan snapped, and Courfeyrac’s attention jerked back to the poet. “Help.”

Right.

The words jolted him awake and reminded him to move. He bolted over and added his own weight to Grantaire’s legs so Jehan could uncurl his own from the cynic’s knees. Jehan was sitting on Grantaire’s stomach and had his wrists pinned over his head, so the two were practically face-to-face.

“Get off!” Grantaire whimpered weakly, eyes shut with tears.

“Calm down then,” Jehan asserted calmly. “Everyone else is trying to help, but they won’t get there quick enough. We might be, but if you want to help her then we need you to get a hold of yourself.”

“What?” Courfeyrac hissed to the poet.

“No one but Bahorel has a car right now, and he’s more than halfway across town. I don’t know if we’re going there to stop her or back her up, but someone needs to be there, and we can’t leave R, and we can’t split up.”

Underneath them, Grantaire started to sag and the resistance petered out. Slowly, Jehan and Courfeyrac climbed off him, and after a tense moment Grantaire showed no signs of trying to bolt again.

“I need to get her back. I need to get her safe,” Grantaire whined softly, still limp on the floor.

“We know,” Jehan said, and reached out a hand to help him up to his feet. Quickly Courfeyrac jumped to mirror the action, and reached for the cynic’s other arm. All of the fight had drained out of him, leaving the blue-eyed man limp, and partially leaning against Jehan’s side.

“We will,” Jehan soothed, kissing Grantaire’s temple and petting his wild black hair down a bit. “But we need to keep you safe as well, and we can’t help her if we have to watch you.”

Grantaire looked absolutely haggard, but slightly more human as well. Clarity started to return to his eyes and he nodded in acquiescence. Jehan beamed at him as if Grantaire had just accomplished something remarkable, and Courfeyrac couldn’t help the sense of dread crawling down his skin.

“I’m going to get that hoodie of yours; grab that beanie that Bossuet knit you too,” Jehan finally said. “You keep saying that they don’t know about you, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”


	10. Cover Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to stop making excuses for myself and say that my absence has been a matter of stress, distraction, and a bit of embarassment. I'm not sure how I feel about this fic anymore, and this coming year I have to write a novel sized work for my creative writing thesis. I can't promise these chapters will come with the frequency I'd like. But I have stuff written ahead, so if someone shoots me a message or a review saying "hey, the fucking fuck? Time to post a new chapter." I'll probably remember and get one to you. It's always your reviews that bring me back to this. 
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me, and hope I don't disappoint.

Jehan kept Grantaire’s arm wrapped firmly around his own. Not that he necessarily thought that the artist was going to try and run off again, he just wanted to make sure that he had an anchor of some kind.

He wasn’t going to admit his concerns that this was a terrible idea either. They could be wrong about what Éponine was planning, and he knew for a _fact_ that they didn’t have all the information. Not even close. But no one else could get to Cosette’s house quick enough and Grantaire’s van could make a scene. If there was a chance that either of the girls or Marius was in danger, they had to do something. Someone needed to be there.

Despite all of the close quarters and group planning sessions, nobody had been good at communicating what they planned to do when it mattered. Enjolras had run off to New York and came back with some dangerous strategy. Éponine and Marius had run off to Cosette’s.

That was the piece that didn’t fit to him. Everyone’s gone into panic mode, but they’ve also gone into their familial protection mode. Éponine, no doubt, took off to keep everyone else safe from being associated with her. So it made no sense for her to go from protecting everyone, to risking Cosette and her family. Yes, it was a strategic location, but Éponine and Cosette were good friends, and it made no sense that Éponine would be okay with that risk.

Cosette had once told them that they were all pieces on a chessboard, working together for some greater goal. But the group had been divided since Enjolras had taken off without telling anyone where he was going or what he was doing. When their chief returned, he brought them a plan that (from what little he could glean from Combeferre and Grantaire’s behavior the other night) seemed to only include one player. Cosette stopped seeing them, and Musichetta kept away. Then Éponine and Marius went AWOL.

Grantaire looked like he was taking the worst of it. He had barely managed to deal with Enjolras’ vigilante ideas when Éponine took off as well. As stretched thin as he was, and pinned down in the house arrest, Jehan hadn’t been surprised at all by his reaction. It was horrible of course, pinning his hysterical friend down to the rug and watching him implode. There were too many tragic verses he could write about that look of utter collapse. No amount of expectation could protect him from that memory of holding one friend down, while he begged another to help him.

Jehan couldn’t dwell on it though. Not now. None of them had the chance to dwell on it. The houses began to look familiar as they looped around some of the back roads of the neighborhood Cosette lived in. In between him and Courfeyrac, Grantaire trembled. His eyes darted left and right, trying to watch out for anyone.

Up above them, there was a bright waxing moon in the sky. It was a gorgeous sight, and yet Jehan couldn’t help the feelings of dread pooling in his stomach. Maybe it was because he was currently taking a 19th century British Literature class, and he was in the middle of the Romantic period. He absolutely loved the theory, the style, and the work that came out of it. And the moon was a common symbol in the genre. It often represented mystery, fear, the subconscious, and illusions. It was the beacon in the realm of shadow and night, and could either inspire or lead you astray.

_Everything looks worse at night._

That’s what one of his friends had told him the night he was picked up from the hospital. Ever since his Mom had told him “it’s probably best if you don’t come back,” and left him, he’d been in a state of shock. He had kept his head bowed and refused to look the doctors and nurses in the eye when they spoke to him. Then finally, a friend had come to collect him and promised that everything looks worse at night. Just wait until morning.

What followed for the next month were several night times of him nearly going back. Whether to finish the conversation with his Pop, to ask his Mom why she had turned away, or to just try to get his books back, sometimes he didn’t even know. But his friend stopped him every time, and every time Jehan had seen her get wearier. So he changed houses, and stayed with different friends. His understanding of faith mixed with the idea of a future that had to be happier than the life he had been living then. And when he got into college on a full ride, he _chose_ to be happy again. He chose Les Amis de l’ABC, and chose to live in daytimes and spend nights with his friends.

But what had transpired this past week had been the decisions of several night times, and not a morning in sight.

So Jehan kept his grip on Grantaire’s arm, and let Courfeyrac lead them to Cosette’s house.

It was an honest-to-God suburban community. The houses sat in rows next to each other, with a few feet of alley space between every handful of structures. The front had a porch and a little room for a small yard. Most houses just had grass and maybe a bush or two, but Cosette had turned her yard into a full scale garden.

And that was why, when the three of them turned the final alley corner to her house, it took Jehan a moment to spot the dark figure standing on the porch, talking to Cosette. He reacted instantly, spinning around and yanking his friends back to the alley and pressing them back against the wall. Slowly, he crouched down, and the others followed suit.

“Claquesous’ here,” Jehan whispered as calmly as he could, although he could feel himself beginning to sway slightly. Goosebumps rose on his skin.

“Éponine?” Grantaire whimpered as quietly as he could. His back was pressed against the wall, and Courfeyrac kept an arm against the cynic’s chest, physically barring him from getting any closer.

Jehan, who crouched near the corner of the house, peered around to look at the sight two houses down. Underneath the porch light he could see a man who looked slightly taller and slightly broader than average. He wasn’t pure bulk like Bahorel; instead, he looked like just about any other man he could pass on the street without a second thought. Perhaps that was better for him though. To be unsuspecting is sometimes the strongest weapon.

Jehan looked across from the threat, and his eyes widened when the face that met him wasn’t who he expected. They’d all been prepared to see Éponine meeting Claquesous to barter or threaten him. But pressed back against the front door was a girl with blonde hair, not brunette.

“She’s not there,” he said puzzled. “He’s talking to Cosette.”

“What?” Both Grantaire and Courfeyrac hissed, and he had to shush them.

Grantaire pushed his way around Courfeyrac and came to crouch near Jehan. For several moments, he stared at the cynic, looking for any indication of what he might do. The man in front of him looked much more in control than he had half an hour ago, although this sort of control was a dangerous one. Grantaire almost looked like Enjolras the way every muscle of him was tensed, and the way he clipped his words through a locked jaw.

But he didn’t look wild anymore. He looked like a man with a mission, and that was better than nothing. So Jehan slid out of the way to give him room to see. Courfeyrac was still crouched a few feet away, staring at the both of them with a look of concern across his face. But Jehan didn’t have time to reassure him. Instead, he stood up a bit and peered at the scene from above Grantaire.

“Éponine wouldn’t let her do that without a reason. And she wouldn’t leave Cosette alone to face him,” Grantaire whispered, shaking his head and moving back to the alley.

“Are you sure that’s Claquesous?” Courfeyrac, speaking for the first time since Jehan told them that they were going after Éponine. “She could just be talking to her father or something.”

“She has one of Ep’s knives tucked into her waistband.” Grantaire said far too evenly.

That ended that debate. Courfeyrac shut his mouth.

“Let me through,” Jehan finally said. “I want to listen, see if we can figure out what they’re trying to do.”

Without a doubt, Jehan had the best ears out of the entire group, so neither questioned his request. Grantaire moved back and he shifted back to his spot on the ground. This time he didn’t even bother with the pretense of crouching, Jehan didn’t care enough about his clothes to freak out about sitting on the pavement. He just needed to find out why their little lark was confronting a mob boss, why she was armed, and where Éponine was.

And he needed to stop his head from spinning. That was also important. He didn’t have time to feel dizzy and nauseous.

Jehan cautiously poked his head back around the corner, and scowled in concentration. With the largely silent night, he could just hear bits of the conversation.

“…what exactly … supposed to do?” Cosette asked softly.

“Shipments arrive by train every few weeks,” the man in shadow said. He was by no means loud, but his voice held more confidence and was much clearer to make out than Cosette’s. “You just pick them up and distribute to those who ask.”

“And they’ll know to approach me how?”

“… word on the street… far more effective than you’d think,” Claquesous purred, though the effect was somewhat hindered by the lisp. Then he reached out and cupped Cosette’s chin, laughing when she flinched away. “You’re not going to be caught, dear.”

Jehan’s eyes widened and he ducked his head back into the alley. There was a dull throbbing in his temples, and his hands had started trembling in an effort not to reach up and grab his head. But by his side two friends with messy dark hair were staring at him expectantly.

“Cosette’s the contact,” he whispered to them weakly.

“What?”

Grantaire scrambled back over to the corner of the building and pushed him aside lightly. It was hardly a shove at all, but Jehan still had to steady a hand on the ground to keep himself from wobbling. He glanced at Courfeyrac, who still had the same miserable look on his face that he wore when they were pinning Grantaire to the floor of his apartment. Maybe he had noticed Jehan’s unsteadiness, maybe he was still concerned about Grantaire, or maybe it was just the entire situation.

Whatever the expression was, Jehan didn’t have time to dwell on it because Grantaire chose that moment to turn back around to face them. The expression on the cynic’s face looked nauseous, and instead of focusing on both of them, or keeping his gaze pointed towards the ground like before, Grantaire stared directly at him.

“Éponine’s in the bushes next to the porch, I’d bet my life on it,” he said significantly. “Hell, I’d even throw some money in that they were recording the conversation for the police.”

There was a moment of relief there, mixed in with sick dread as the missing puzzle pieces came together. Somehow, Cosette had been found and targeted so she got through to Éponine (probably through Marius) to explain the situation. Since neither of them wanted to risk any of the others anyway, they just snuck out and made a plan of their own. And if they were trying to get Claquesous to incriminate himself, then Marius was somehow off dealing with the police.

Jehan met Grantaire’s gaze, comprehending what the cynic was trying to communicate, and they had a moment of silent of conversation. The tight line of Grantaire’s lips and the hardness in his eyes spoke volumes, and Jehan responded with an understanding tilt of the head, a sigh, and the slightest of nods. He glanced significantly to his left and Grantaire pursed his lips. There was an understanding.

The cynic took a few shuffled steps backwards, next to Courfeyrac and let Jehan take his place again. This time however, Grantaire had silently asked Jehan to look for something specifically. And he found it almost immediately.

“Be specific about what I’m supposed to do?” Cosette pleaded with the man in shadow. “Plants would be of a feather here, but salts taste bitter and cause alarm. I want to see your farms before I buy your fruits.”

That was the big problem with the girls’ plan that both Grantaire and Jehan saw in an instant. As wonderful as she was, Cosette wasn’t used to being the center of this kind of attention. Lacking the experience of Éponine, the fire of Enjolras, the cool reasoning of Combeferre, the physical presence of Bahorel, or the quick thinking of Courfeyrac she was unfamiliar with how to coerce Claquesous into incriminating himself. And if she lacked subtlety and tipped him off, she was on her own.

“She’s fumbling and he’s getting suspicious,” Jehan hissed back to his friends.

“Can she recover it?” Courfeyrac forced the words through his teeth, worry lacing his voice.

He kept his eyes glued on the alleyway where it was quickly becoming clear that no, she couldn’t.

“You’re asking a bit many questions for my liking, girl,” Claquesous snarled, taking a step closer.

Jehan’s legs protested but his mind flared into action. Éponine couldn’t protect Cosette if things went south without compromising herself, and wherever Marius was it wasn’t close enough. This was their major flaw; Cosette’s inexperience would get her in trouble. Quickly, Jehan sprung to his feet (wrapping a hand around the corner of the building to steady himself) and glanced back at his friends.

Jehan shook his head and ran his hand through his hair to muss it up. By this point, he felt himself getting slightly dizzy, but it wasn’t too bad just yet. He had maybe a few good minutes for Éponine to send a warning signal and for help to arrive.

“If Claquesous tries to hurt Cosette, Éponine’s not gonna stay hidden,” Grantaire said. But it was a debriefing, not a reassurance. He had already known what Jehan was going to do.

“It’s not going to come to that,” Jehan promised darkly. His knuckles tightened around the corner of the house to offer him some much needed balance.

 “Jehan?” Courfeyrac asked, out of the loop. Worry was starting to creep into his friend’s voice.

He took a steadying breath. That was part of the conversation; Courfeyrac hadn’t been handling any of this well. Seeing Grantaire’s panic attacks over Claquesous’ arrival and Enjolras’ disappearance had been the beginning and this afternoon had only made it worse. Courfeyrac with his wavy brown hair and his dopey smile really was the center of their group. When he was surrounded by his friends, he thrived. But when the group splintered, panicked, and threw themselves recklessly into danger, he started to splinter. Jehan hadn’t had the time to check in with him since the pinning Grantaire to the floor incident.

Because as things got more real, more immediate, Grantaire shifted into practicality mode. He could see Éponine was in danger, and he had to think of the best way to protect her. But Courfeyrac had just been slipping more and more into a helpless mindset. And he wasn’t going to like what he and Grantaire had decided.

The cynic slipped his arms around Courfeyrac’s arms and chest and pulled tight so he couldn’t get away. Realization dawned on the law student, and he scrambled to try and pull Grantaire off of him. But the shorter man held firm, despite the struggling.

Ever since Jehan had told Courfeyrac about the story behind his head injury he had always said the same thing. “ _You shouldn’t have faced them alone; someone should’ve been there with you._ ” The Amis had only known about the scar for a few weeks, and then his roommate had finished his medication when he had an episode. Courfeyrac had been so pissed that he refused to let Jehan stay in his own room that night, and bought an air mattress just for him. That night while he was about to go to sleep, Courfeyrac had called down and asked how he got it.

Jehan had told him the story about coming out to his parents. How his father held him down and beat him, yelling at him to “ _take it back_.” How his Mother wouldn’t look at what was happening and refused to stop it. How in a fit of passion, his father had grabbed one of the tools on his desk in the garage and swung. How he woke up in the hospital next to his Mother, who said “ _it’s probably best if you don’t come back_.”

Courfeyrac looked shaken after that story. He had jumped down from his lofted bed, sat on the floor by Jehan’s head, and carefully brushed a thumb over the scar tissue. That had been the first time Courfeyrac had said it: “ _you shouldn’t have had to face them alone._ ” It hadn’t been the last time he’d said something like it though. And every single time the topic came up, Jehan always suspected that Courfeyrac was actually trying to say “ _I wish I had been there for you._ ”

Whatever the crisis in the friend group, Courfeyrac tried to be there for it. Even if he couldn’t help, he tried to _be there_. But too much had happened in the last few days, and Courfeyrac was spread too thin trying to keep up with what was happening.

Now, he was helplessly struggling against Grantaire’s hold.

“She needs backup,” Jehan said by way of apology, and ducked around the corner to go face Claquesous. And he tried to ignore the final hiss of his name from the alleyway, cut off by the sound of a hand covering a mouth.


	11. Help Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I was browsing through Tumblr, and I came across one of the people who I follow. I don't know her in real life, but her icon always catches my eye, and I reblog a ton of her stuff. In short, I really like her blog. Then, when I refreshed my dashboard I saw I had a message. It was spam, but as I was clearing out my inbox I saw that this person messaged me about liking this fic and followed me. 
> 
> I was just hit with this overwhelming sense of awe. This Tumblr user is a part of my daily life, brings a smile to my face with a click of the reblog button, and I know nothing about her at all. And as the holiday season is ripe for it, I'd like to update for all of you. And I want to say I'm thankful, for everyone out there who means purportedly nothing, and yet so much to me.

Combeferre loved his best friend, but an impatient Enjolras was downright near impossible to deal with. They had returned to Éponine and Grantaire’s apartment right around sunset, and had been greeted with an empty apartment. And although Éponine had sworn up and down that the Patron-Minette didn’t know about Grantaire, the first thing that came to both of their minds was “ _they were here_.”

The second thing that ran through their minds was probably more accurate though.

A fire had flared up in his roommate’s gaze and he’d started pacing the room. Not quite Grantaire’s short quick steps, but long strides, waving arms, and utter fury. Words like “ _how dare he do this_ ” and “ _how could he be this stupid_?” poured from his lips. And when they found the ledger still nestled inside Enjolras’ bag, all of that fury evaporated into a tense, carefully controlled despair.

Then Combeferre got Jehan’s text, and the pacing started right up again.

He had tried to tell Enjolras that Grantaire was safer with Jehan and (probably) Courfeyrac there to watch out for him. But after a while, Combeferre moved to sit on the counter of the kitchenette and watched as his roommate stared at the front door. He could see everything bubbling underneath the surface. Whatever it was, Enjolras still didn’t comprehend it, but it looked like he was starting to recognize it. And for his best friend’s sake, Combeferre prayed that Grantaire was okay.

“Read me the text again.”

“It hasn’t changed since the last five times you asked to hear it.”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras snarled out impatiently, not pausing his pacing.

“Fine,” he conceded with a sigh. “Jehan just said **out. don’t fret.** ”

“Don’t fret? What does he mean, don’t fret?” Enjolras raged for what might be the hundredth time in an hour. “How could we possibly _not_ fret? They’re gone, to God knows where!”

To be fair, it really was a terrible text message. At least the one from Éponine had been clear, reassuring, and practical. It had told them where she was, that she was safe, and reiterated why it was smarter to leave her there. And sure, Jehan had probably been in a rush when he sent it and hadn’t wanted to deal with a big conversation. But even so, there was no real way _not_ to be concerned with that little to go on.

That being said, Combeferre couldn’t help but be the slightest bit relieved with the situation. It was far from ideal, but he had been genuinely terrified when Enjolras proposed his plan with his father’s ledger. Making a deal like that would be permanent; Enjolras would’ve been in their sights until the day he died. And with the sheer amounts of protests, rallies, and uncertain situations they found themselves in, it would’ve been too easy to strategically stage a hit. And without a better plan, they would’ve eventually conceded and let Enjolras go through with it.

“What do you want to do?” he asked Enjolras for the hundredth time, sounding tired to his own ears.

He couldn’t tell if Éponine had any better of a plan, and that concerned him. Combeferre was the mother hen of the group, and worried about the well-being of _all_ of his friends. But he still felt guiltily relieved that they had stopped Enjolras’ stupid plan.

“Look for them! Find them!” Enjolras punctuated the words with tense arms gestures and a death glare. Everything about their leader was tense and carefully controlled. Even when he was wild and throwing his arms around shouting every muscle was clenched in worry.

“Sure, why don’t we drive up and down the streets with a foghorn calling their names?” He said dourly, crossing his arms over his chest and refusing to budge from his spot at the counter. Refusing to dwell on the member of their little family who always sat on the counters; the one who was now in danger. “We both know they’ve gone to confront Claquesous somehow.”

“Then they need backup!”

“And with our lack of information, we’d tip their hand more than we’d help,” Combeferre shot back instantly. “You know this.”

He gave his friend a questioning look. Even at his most reckless, their leader was always smarter than the plans he was suggesting right now. But then again, this wasn’t the Enjolras Combeferre knew. The politics major was passionate and urgent, but never desperate, frantic.

And yet, with his words, Combeferre watched even that fade from his friend’s face. The barely-contained panic dimmed, and the blond’s shoulder’s sagged. It left the man looking very small in the middle of the empty apartment.

“I didn’t want this…” Enjolras breathed out in a broken admission.

“I know,” he said and walked over to lay a hand on his roommate’s shoulder. “But look at it this way; now Éponine has probably half of the group backing her up on whatever she’s decided to do.”

Enjolras glanced back, worry still laced in his expression. “Two of them are Marius and Cosette.”

That was a fair point.

“And three of them are Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire,” Combeferre countered anyway, determined not to let his best friend worry himself into doing something stupidly heroic.

Enjolras winced at the mention of Grantaire’s name, and the philosophy major felt a new rush of guilt. His roommate was used to being concerned about large groups, focusing on civil freedom in a bigger picture. This was intimate, and it was probably one of the first times Enjolras had to truly worry with such specificity.

It didn’t help that they were both completely useless either.

Enjolras all but crumpled into leaning against the counter of the kitchenette, and Combeferre couldn’t tell if it was in acceptance or surrender. Either way, he had never seen his friend so defeated. Combeferre resolved to set aside his impatience and nerves, and focus on the person he could help.

“They’ll be okay.”

But maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say, because Enjolras immediately started pacing again, and went back to grumbling in irritation under his breath. There was a pause, and then Enjolras turned back to him.

“Did Jehan say anything about…”

“Oh my God, Enjolras I _will_ kill you.”

\-----

Never let it be said that Grantaire wasn’t practical when he absolutely needed to be. When something was a concept, he cracked and panicked. But when there was immediacy to a crisis, he could go cold and detached.

Grantaire couldn’t protect her; he was an immediate link to Éponine, whether the Patron-Minette was aware of it or not, and therefore could compromise their safety. Courfeyrac, though usually quick-witted, was barely holding it together. Jehan was the only one who could protect Cosette until Éponine’s back-up plan kicked in.

Jehan knew it too. And despite the flowers, the braids, the poetry, and the general sweetness of the man, Jean Prouvaire was a force to be reckoned with if he needed to be. Grantaire could see it, and that was why he nodded, asking him to please protect them. And on the poet’s shaky cue, he fulfilled Jehan’s silent request and restrained Courfeyrac, so he wouldn’t do anything stupid. And with that, the poet apologized and disappeared round the corner.

For a moment Courfeyrac silently fought, just because he needed to Grantaire suspected. Then finally the law student slumped in his arms as a surrender, and quietly hissed. “Let me watch.”

Once he was sure it wasn’t a feint, he loosened his hold, and both of them went to the corner to watch. His stomach wanted to rebel on him, and he was gripping the brick far too tightly, just to keep the panic from spilling over.

“Heeeeeyyyyyyyyy,” Jehan slurred loudly as he stumbled towards Cosette, and it was too late to stop whatever came next.

Jehan was wobbling, and pretending (quite convincingly) to be a drunk college kid.

Cosette stared in horror, gaping between Claquesous and the poet completely speechless. Claquesous took a step back so he could keep both of them within his vision, and eyed Cosette suspiciously

“Hey fellas… well, fella and lady,” the poet drawled out before bursting into giggles. He then stumbled slightly, and moved to the gate by the front of Cosette’s house so he could grab on. “Can you keep a secret? I have to piss _so_ bad!”

“Shit,” Courfeyrac hissed from their perch, worry bleeding into his voice.

“What?” Grantaire asked, trying to keep the barely contained panic out of his. “He’s doing good.”

“That fall, it was real. He’s having a dizzy spell.”

Grantaire looked up and focused on the way Jehan was draped over the gate. His knuckles were white and his face looked pale. Though the freshman was good at playing it off as alcohol-related, they could both see the tension in his stance.

“Shit.” He agreed with Courfeyrac under his breath.

“Fuck off, fag.” Claquesous snapped out, and Grantaire couldn’t help but flinch.

“Whoa, so much negativity! Is everything okay peoples?” Jehan asked, smoothly ignoring the insult and still playing the drunk, but stumbling closer to the action.

“… you know this _clown_?” Claquesous hissed, moving away from the porch light, and closer to the bush that Éponine was almost absolutely hiding in.

Grantaire’s bitten-down fingernails dug into the bricks, leaving bits of cement underneath the nails. Now that it had been pointed out to him, he could see the way the poet was stumbling.

“No, I swear!” Cosette insisted.

“This is some little trick, isn’t it dearie?” Claquesous snapped, and his right hand hovered by the belt of his jeans.

Grantaire’s mind whited out for a second as he realized what was about to happen. Claquesous had a gun. He was an idiot to send Jehan in there alone and unarmed. Cosette wouldn’t know what to do with the knife Éponine gave her, and Jehan couldn’t do anything. He’d just thrown one more friend into danger while he hid away safely.

“No! I’ve never seen him before in my life!”

Christopher’s crying, pleading between the sounds of feet and fists against skin. Car against his back, the taste of blood on his tongue. It was going to end here. It always ended here.

“You’re a terrible liar dearie,” Claquesous snarled.

“… too loud,” Jehan said faintly, sounding far away. He was going to faint any moment.

Blood in his lungs, blood on the pavement. The cracking of bones. And always his same fucking cowardice.

“No, don’t!” Cosette shouted.

Grantaire wished his vision would blur like last time, but his eyes remained frozen and sharp. Watching helplessly, unable even to run.

Claquesous pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at Jehan.

He’d lost Christopher. Now it would be Jehan, and Cosette, and Éponine. God, if he lost Éponine, he’d have nothing left anymore. All he could do was mindlessly wrap his arms back around Courfeyrac, keeping him from jumping out and getting himself killed as well.

After all, Jehan wanted Courfeyrac safe.

Then suddenly there were sirens and lights, and cars surrounding them. There was the sound of guns clicking, ready to fire. And finally Grantaire didn’t have to watch anymore. He sunk back against the brick wall, sobbing as he heard men announcing things, and police chatter. Finally the sound of a body hitting the hood of a car jolted him out of the fog and he realized he was crying. Hysterically sobbing into his hands, ugly and disgusting, and uninhibited relief that somehow, it was okay.

He didn’t know if Courfeyrac was by his side or not, couldn’t comprehend anything that was happening. It was only when he heard the sound of cars driving away, maybe seconds, maybe an hour later, that he stood up and stepped out of his hiding place.

Courfeyrac was sitting on the ground, leaning against the gate. Jehan sat in his lap with his head buried in the crook of his neck. Marius had his arms wrapped around a softly crying Cosette. Everyone was okay. And then slowly Éponine stepped out of the bushes, phone in hand.

Grantaire ignored everything else and ran until Éponine was in his arms, and he couldn’t tell if he was crying or yelling. He could pick out words like “ _how dare you_ ” and “ _never again_ ” but he had no clue what he was saying, if he had the energy to think about it. But Éponine was laughing and nodding and hugging him back. And she was so very alive.

They were safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can, go check out calderaofrage. Literally, a tumblr message she sent me months ago had me near tears tonight. So if you're still reading this, I hope you know how much this random shmuck on the internet loves and appreciates the crap out of you!!!
> 
> Also, I blame you for turning me into a shameless Stucky shipper. :P


	12. Forgive Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. If there's anyone out there in the void still reading this, I'd just like to let you know that I'm definitely back, and I plan on finishing this. I have this finished, the next interlude, and the majority of the final multi-chapter. I know it's hard to believe me because I started this years ago, and have been inconsistent for upwards of 2-3 years. When I started this, I was taking a year off to transfer colleges, and I had quite a bit of free time. But I transferred to a nonsensically hard school and spent my summers trying to bulk up my resume. 
> 
> One of the things that inspired this story was my own struggle with several learning disabilities. Though dyslexia is not one of them, my Dad struggles with it, and I often use his dyslexia to express my own frustrations with AD/HD and a few other lesser known learning disabilities in writing. Last year, I had to sign up for disability services at my college. Because it was a private college the accommodations they gave were nominal at best and the extra courses they dumped on my forced me to give up my second major. I'd been devastated and hadn't really had the heart to do much more than struggle (and drown my GPA) to finish up my requirements. I'd transferred with the desire to double major, and the school promised I'd be able to, and took away that promise the moment I'd matriculated. 
> 
> For a long time, I felt as though my learning disabilities were keeping me from everything I wanted to do and the only way I could claw back up to functionality was through Adderall. I'm still struggling with that in my post-college life, but my relief at school being over, and my anger at the college rekindled my desire to finish this story. It's just as much a proof of concept as it is a vent for my own insecurities. And even through my stupidly long hiatus, seeing comments has always made me feel like I managed to do something right. So thank you all for sticking with me this long. I hope I can continue to please you. 
> 
> Now, after this long-winded explanation... on with the show!

Somehow, they had all managed to stumble back to Grantaire and Éponine’s apartment together, despite the fact that no one wanted to let anyone out of an immediate range appropriate for hugging. Courfeyrac was near dizzy with relief and exhaustion and imagined that the others felt the same, if not worse. So it was really no surprise that they all just wound up in an entwined huddling mosh pit, clinging onto each other.

Grantaire wouldn’t let go of Éponine, who refused to let Cosette out of her sight. The rest of them huddled around those three, though everyone took turns holding onto Jehan, who had been stuffed with his Tylenol, and was now getting drowsy.

It shouldn’t really have been a surprise what awaited them when they got through the door. The rest of the Amis stared at them from various bits of the living room, and Enjolras, who froze in the middle of pacing snapped his eyes up to glare at them.

“What the hell were you all thinking, running off with no plan! With no warning! You could have been killed and we had no idea where you were! We were all worried sick!...” their golden leader started screaming, both entirely in control and utterly wild at the same time. Fury blazed in his eyes.

It was nothing like Grantaire’s relief-sick scolding through tears that had taken place less than an hour ago. This was raw and barely checked rage. And none of them could handle it right now. To everyone’s surprise, it was Marius who stepped forward, shaken but calm, and rested a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder.

“I’m sorry we scared you. All of you. We didn’t know what to do, and I think no one wanted to risk anyone else’s lives. But it’s over now. Can we all sit down and tell you about what happened?”

It was shockingly practical, and everyone paused in silence for a moment before Enjolras quietly said, “yeah, okay.”

Éponine and Cosette set up Jehan’s sleeping bag on the couch and helped him into it. Courfeyrac instinctively handed him Ellie to cuddle with, before settling into a circle on the floor with everyone else.

It slipped no one’s notice how Grantaire took a tentative seat next to Enjolras. And when the cynic bumped the blond’s shoulder, the latter seemed to relax slightly.

Éponine was the one who spoke, recounting how she caught Marius trying to sneak out, their discussion and escape, then the plan that she and Cosette came up with. Finally she explained the meet-up with Claquesous and Jehan’s distraction while Javert and Marius drove up to arrest the mob man. At the end of the story, no one said anything for several long seconds.

“Well then…” Bossuet started, but trailed off.

“Yeah.” Marius said in response.

“That’s…” Joly tried.

“Right though?” Cosette cut him off.

There was weak round of giggles that tapered off into nothing.

“Who wants some hot chocolate?” Combeferre finally asked.

Eleven hands shot in the air. Jehan, already asleep, was the only absentee.

“Who wants rum in theirs?” he added.

No one lowered their hand. And after Enjolras sent a nod of confirmation to Combeferre, the philosophy major wandered off to the kitchen to fill the orders.

“So, it’s over?” Bahorel asked.

“I think so,” Éponine said. “Since Cosette, Marius, and Jehan are involved in the arrest, they won’t put out a hit. And I doubt Claquesous will be under arrest for long, but law enforcement’s proved too vigilant to bother with this town anymore. And R and I are safe.”

“Thank God.” Feuilly said.

Bossuet ruffled Grantaire’s hair, and that sparked a good deal of hugging. Courfeyrac could practically feel the tension start to bleed out of the room.

“Even so,” Grantaire said. “Would you guys like to stay over tonight? I know there’s no need, but I think most of us are pretty frazzled.”

Everyone pretty quickly agreed that no one wanted to leave anyone alone tonight. And after the boozy hot chocolate was passed around and Joly and Bossuet called Musichetta to update her on what happened, everyone was generally ready to collapse. Grantaire and Éponine brought their blankets into the living room and everyone huddled up into another cuddle pile.

With all the events of the day, Courfeyrac had fully expected to conk out the moment his head hit the pillow. Everything was okay; his friends were safe. No one was blackmailing mob bosses, or being threatened by middlemen, or being dragged back into a lifetime of sex slavery. But even so, the fog of worry and helplessness clouding his mind seemed to expand into a storm of confusion.

He wondered if this was what Grantaire dealt with every day when he and Éponine became runaways. He couldn’t sleep, just building up the danger in his head until it threatened to paralyze him.

When he saw Jehan wake up somewhere around 2 am, he had a moment of blinding panic that something happened that he didn’t know about, and that it wasn’t over. But the poet stumbled towards the light of the bathroom instead of the front door. The lump of fear in his throat turned stale, but Courfeyrac couldn’t calm down. Before he realized it, he had followed the freshman to the bathroom, and barged in before the shorter man could close the door.

\-----

“Okay, what the fuck, Jehan!” Courfeyrac snapped as quietly as he could, probably trying not to wake everyone up but still needing desperately to vent his frustration.

Jehan really hadn’t had time to check if Courfeyrac was okay when they got back home. The last thing he remembered clearly was the girls helping him into his sleeping bag on Éponine and Grantaire’s heavenly couch, and Courfeyrac’s stuffed elephant being tucked into his arms. But clearly, the usually warm center of the group was far from okay.

“So I’m guessing I’m not allowed to pee then?” Jehan asked groggily, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and closing the lid of the toilet to sit on. As worried as he was internally, his body still needed a moment to process the memo.

“What the hell were you _thinking_ , interfering with Claquesous back there?” Courfeyrac hissed out, only barely avoiding shouting. He was waving his arms all over the place to match the frustration in his voice. “You could’ve been _killed_! You nearly were!”

“You know as well as I did that Cosette slipped up, and Claquesous was suspicious. Éponine couldn’t protect her without giving herself away. If Éponine had sent the text to Marius the moment things started going south, he and Javert wouldn’t have gotten there in time,” he explained calmly, wondering if he could mimic the Combeferre voice that could always calm everybody down.

The older man gaped at him, and Jehan decided that evidently, he couldn’t.

The very rare times when Courfeyrac got upset, it was an understatement to say that he lived up to his good Italian heritage. From the one time Courfeyrac’s parents took all of the Amis (sans Grantaire, Éponine, and Cosette, as they hadn’t been in the picture yet) out to dinner, it was obvious that the Abbiati clan were all boisterous, radiant, and spoke as much with their hands as they did with their lips.

Seeing his friend now, Jehan wondered if he would need to duck from any errant gesticulations, because he was in no way awake enough for that.

“You didn’t know any of that at the time!” Courfeyrac shouted. “Why do you always do this? You charge headfirst into friggin’ lion dens, knowing full well the danger you’ll be in. Because who needs self-preservation? I mean, fuck it Jehan! Why do you always need to be a secret badass at the worst possible moments?”

Jehan looked at him, confused. Maybe he should’ve been angry or insulted, but he was just too tired to care. He knew that Courfeyrac didn’t mean it, or at least, he didn’t mean it in the way that he said it. The sophomore was one of the more easygoing people on the planet; Jehan could literally count on one hand the times he’d seen the law student genuinely lose his head. And the few times Courfeyrac did lose his head, the easy awareness of how he was saying things was largely compromised.

So instead of rising to the multiple barbs Courfeyrac had (accidentally) thrown at him, he levelly replied. “I only charge into lions’ dens when I couldn’t live with myself for not acting.”

Some switch must have flicked on in Courfeyrac’s head, because he looked suddenly much more awake (if that was the right word) than he had when he had been frantically raving before. Slowly, he reached his arm out until he found the floor, and sat down in the tiled bathroom.

“Well, when you put it _that_ way…”

This wasn’t just about what had happened today, Jehan realized. He lowered himself to the floor as well and opened up his arms in invitation. It took less than two seconds for his friend to crack a soft smile and accept the offered hug.

“I didn’t mean it like that Jehan,” Courfeyrac mumbled in apology, though it was muffled by Jehan’s shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he replied easily, running his hands through the older man’s hair to calm him down. “I know.”

Courfeyrac pulled away with a thoughtful look.

“How about this, you need to stop charging into lions’ dens alone,” he proposed thoughtfully, looking no more than five years old as he suggested it, as if he was sure that would fix everything.

And with that, everything clicked into place. Phrases from previous conversations echoed in his memory, and Jehan understood why his friend was so scared. Slowly, he reached up and placed a soft kiss on the law student’s forehead.

“I wasn’t alone,” Jehan said finally. “You wouldn’t have let anything happen to me. Neither would Cosette, Grantaire, Éponine, or Marius for that matter. Éponine was right; the Amis isn’t just a club. And I don’t say it outright often enough, but you guys are kind of the first thing that’s felt like family since I lost mine.”

Courfeyrac bowed his head with a rare shyness, before looking up and mumbling “you guys are kind of like family for me too.”

Those often repeated words every time the subject of his coming out had arisen in conversation. That “ _you shouldn’t have had to face them alone_ ” which really meant “ _I should have been there with you._ ” The warm and radiant center of their group, who always went out of his way to make everyone feel accepted and wanted. At the end of the day, his greatest fear was leaving someone alone.

Or being left alone himself.

Jehan smiled sadly and pressed another kiss to the top of his friend’s head before resting his cheek there.

“You couldn’t have been there; there’s nothing you could have done then. But since I’ve joined the Amis, I’ve never once had to face anything alone. And neither will you.”

Courfeyrac pursed his lips and nodded uncertainty, which earned him another tight hug from Jehan.

“I should probably let you pee, shouldn’t I?” Courfeyrac said after a long silence.

Jehan let the sophomore untangle himself from his grip, and promised that he’d be done in a moment. After the door closed, the poet could’ve sworn he’d heard shifting in the hallway, and after the quickest pee in the history of the universe and a short washing of his hands, he opened the door to see what was going on.

Sometime when neither was paying attention, the Amis had woken up (well, Courfeyrac hadn’t exactly been quiet) and had found themselves in a large group hug, with their center in the middle. Jehan felt a soft smile overtaking his face at his wonderful family, and immediately joined in. And over someone’s shoulder he sends Courfeyrac a wink to say “ _I told you so_.”


	13. Try Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments last chapter! I'm honestly so humbled by all the positive feedback I've gotten. A few of your comments made me tear up. 
> 
> Celestialbluerose especially, I nearly cried when I read your comment. The things you said, it meant so much to me. Growing up with a very severe case of AD/HD was very much an exercise in futility and anxiety. One middle school guidance counselor had even defined it to me as having to work twice as hard for the rest of my life to achieve half as much. I found that everything from homework, to dishes, to playing Magic the Gathering with my friends is affected by it. And there were several points in my schooling career where I had given up and accepted poor grades as just an inevitability, because I was just incapable of putting in the work to keep up. 
> 
> If I can say one thing in regards to your nephew, it's important for you to understand that no matter what we do, we're doing one of two types of tasks: something we can do in tangent to other things (associative tasks), or something we have to put our full concentration on (cognitive tasks). But tasks aren't immutably one or the other. Taking notes, for example, is something many kids with ADHD will never be able to do (no matter how many teachers insisted that if I just learned how to take notes, my life would become so much easier) because both taking notes and listening to (and processing) a lecture are cognitive tasks for them, while note taking might be an associative task for abled people. I spent a lot of my life thinking I should be able to do certain things within other people's parameters, and therefore not giving myself enough mental mobility to actually do anything. Beyond offering him the loving and understanding support structure which I have no doubt you already do, it's also important to let him know that it's okay if he doesn't learn, think, or process things like other people, and it'll only be more damaging to try. He might need to ask a friend/teacher to copy their notes after a class, or get a text-to-speech app to listen to textbooks when he stops processing what he's reading. And that's just as good. 
> 
> Sorry for the ramble. Onto the (admittedly short) chapter!

Grantaire couldn’t help but grin when Feuilly’s stupid smiling little Polish head appeared in the doorframe to the kitchen.

“Lunch break, Brzycki?” he called over his shoulder while finishing up the last order before he got his break.

“Yep. Is it a last names day?”

“It might be,” he answered with a grin. Grantaire couldn’t help it; they’d driven the French mob out of town yesterday. While it wasn’t something to put on a resume, it did leave him with a vaguely victorious feeling. And he’d learned long ago to treasure these good days. “But see, it works perfectly for most of you. Brzycki, Thénardier, Thaxton, Eisenkramer, Abbiati, Prouvaire, Cobb, Fauchelevent, Pontmercy, Cortez, Lesgueules. Then you hit Joly, and it just doesn’t work.”

“What’s wrong with Joly Lyman-Hall?” Feuilly asks with that smile that just looks like he’s laughing.

“Dunno, but I think it’s the hyphen. Throws me off,” he said before calling out, “yo Hannigan, I’m on break.”

“I hope you know that I have wet dreams about bosses as understanding as yours,” Feuilly quipped, getting a laugh out of Grantaire.  


He waited a moment until he heard his boss’ faint “ _kay_ ” then he pulled off his little hair cap and apron, and slipped into their usual booth. Today was Tuna melt Tuesday, so both of them pulled out their own sandwiches to compare. After determining that Feuilly’s was better and gave him a point in their ongoing pissing contest on who could eat better on a poor man’s diet, they fell into easy chatter.

“So, real stuff.” Feuilly begins after about thirty minutes of meandering banter. “I've got an apology and a proposition for you. Which do you want first??”

“Umm…” Grantaire really didn’t have an answer for that. For several seconds he could only stare blankly at the workingman. Feuilly hadn’t walked in on him in the shower or something in the past few days, had he? Finally, he managed to say, “apology? I guess?”

“Okay then, that’ll probably make more sense anyway,” Feuilly said with a shrug. “A few days ago I woke up one night and accidentally overheard a conversation between you and Enjolras. I didn’t want to interrupt anything, but I also couldn’t really get back to sleep. So I heard a lot of it.”

Well then.

He had not been expecting that.

It took less than two seconds for his skin to flush bright red, and Grantaire simply had to bury his face in his hands.

“Oh God,” he groaned in embarrassment. “Have you…”

“Of course I didn’t tell anyone you ass,” Feuilly cut him off to address his fears before he even needed to voice them, and swatted him in the arm for extra measure. “Had it been almost anyone else though, you would’ve been fucked.”

In that moment, Grantaire kind of loved Feuilly.

“Thanks man, and there’s not much you could’ve really done, so not a problem. Sorry for the awkward moment,” he said, still trying to get rid of the horrible blush threatening to take over his entire face.

That night was one of the best of his life, but if he had to think about what had actually been said… well he remembered everything they talked about, but not everything that was said. All Grantaire knew was that he wanted to get away from this line of thought.

“So, proposition?” he asked, hoping it was about something else.

“Right. Well, tell me to fuck off if I’m overstepping boundaries,” Feuilly started. “But you know that I largely had to teach myself how to read. I know it’s not quite the same thing as dyslexia, but I’d still be happy to see what reading level you’re at and help you improve. If you wanted, of course.”

“Oh. Umm…” Well, he certainly hadn’t been expecting that. That topic moved beyond embarrassment, straight on into discomfort. The way Feuilly just casually called it dyslexia too, as if it never crossed the Pole’s mind that he might just be stupid. Grantaire couldn’t handle it, and started to politely decline. “Well, I wouldn’t want to take up your time. I know how busy you are…”

But somewhere in the middle of the dismissal, he just tapered off. He wouldn’t want to be a disappointment straight from the get-go. And if Feuilly were to see how inept he was, he was sure that was exactly what would happen. But then the things Enjolras’ said came back to him; baffling things like “ _you didn’t fail anyone; they failed you_ ” and “ _you perplex me_ ,” that he didn’t understand, but made him glow anyway.

He remembered the two books hidden in the bottom of his art supplies box buried in the back of his closet. The copy of Howl that he’d accidentally stolen from the library with Christopher that day. And a copy of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology too. Éponine had needed the book for one of her classes, and the library had run out of copies to borrow, so she actually had to buy it. He was so shocked to see the familiar cover after all those years that he’d swiped it before she could return it to the college bookstore.

After all this time, Christopher hadn’t regretted him at all, no matter how horrible the end was. Grantaire still remembered the way the boy went out of his way to find new methods to help him learn; he still remembered the pride he felt when he actually managed to read an entire paragraph of _The Giver_ without help.

He’d spent so long running from those memories, afraid of the shame that came with them. But Enjolras saw, and he didn’t turn away. All Enjolras had seen was bravery and potential. And Grantaire found that he missed those memories; he wanted to visit them again.

And so, against all the fear screaming at him not to try straying beyond his sad little world, Grantaire found himself looking up and smiling shyly.

“Actually, I’d really like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> I had completely forgotten until now, but if any of you want to swing by my Tumblr and chat, my url is Whimsical-in-the-Brainpan. Hope to hear from you!


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